


Till I Hear You Sing

by angelsfallenknight



Category: Glee
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:48:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23580340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelsfallenknight/pseuds/angelsfallenknight
Summary: Rachel Berry is a succesful Broadway actress. She's landed the starring role of Waitress, fresh to start its first run on the Broadway Circuit. However, after opening night, the cast receive a less than flattering review from the New York Times, penned by one Quinn Fabray. Rachel resolves to make Quinn see sense through Broadway classics and a lot of soul searching.
Relationships: Rachel Berry/Quinn Fabray
Comments: 8
Kudos: 112





	Till I Hear You Sing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [teadalek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/teadalek/gifts).



> This was originally a joke fic, thanks to one teadalek. However, it turned into something a little more serious the more it went on. I originally started this back in 2018 and promptly abandoned it when it was 3/4 done. I finally finished it. Finally. The includes a lot of songs. You'll find the following link very helpful. https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5yZwuhPlPKQHRHoQKecUHc?si=S31jWfuySFeQopfi5Pw8OA  
> It's the 'soundtrack' for the fic. Enjoy.  
> Sorry about the spelling mistakes by the way. This is a beast to read through and some may have slipped through.

_ “Sugar. Butter. Flour.” The words are crooned like a lullaby intermittently throughout the musical “Waitress,” bringing a warm blanket of comfort to the troubled central character, stuck in an unhappy marriage and essentially working two jobs, baking pies for the diner where she also puts on an apron to wait tables. _

_ The story starts with Jenna (played by Rachel Berry) facing a life crisis. She discovers she’s pregnant, and doesn’t greet the news with the traditional excitement. This is primarily because her husband, Earl (Derek Codero, doing what he can with a one-note villain), is a brutish man who snatches Jenna’s tips as soon as she gets off work, glowering at her if he feels she hasn’t brought home enough. For a while Jenna keeps news of her pregnancy from Earl, hoping she can find some way to wriggle out of her marriage and forge a new life for herself and her child. _

Her name was in the New York Times. She could have screamed with joy. This was all she had ever wanted; the recognition. Her eyes roamed the paper, drinking up each and every word the critic had written about the show. The whole cast sat on stage, reading their own individual copies of the New York Times, heads buried between the black and white.

They were impressed with such a review; it seemed to be going well. The critic seemed to enjoy the show, although they had picked out some stunted dialogue and a rather one dimensional villain. She glanced up at Derek, who played her husband in the show, and noticed the disappointment in his eyes. She felt bad for him; after all, it wasn’t really his fault. The show wasn’t perfect, and the writing was sometimes stiff and stilted. You just had to make it work. The show _must_ __go on.

Her eyes snapped back down to the paper, hoping and willing that the critic had said something about her specifically. She had put her heart and soul into the preview of the show, and her solo had earned her a standing ovation.

_ And while the crowd enjoyed Miss Berry’s rendition of She Used to Be Mine, I couldn’t help but feel as if something was missing. Whilst Miss Berry’s voice is powerful and can draw anyone’s attention to her soulful voice, I felt as if the emotion wasn’t quite there. I felt detached from the plight of our main character and, as such, I was disappointed. _

_ The show, however, despite its misgivings is a show that should be seen. Although not to everyone’s taste, if you have an afternoon spare, give it a try.  _ _ 3/5. _

Her hand tightened into a fist, raging surging through her veins. How _dare_ __they say she sang with no emotion. She was Rachel Berry! Scrunching up the newspaper within her grasp, and in a bout of fury, she stood from her seat, flinging it far back behind her where it landed with a sharp clang. If her cast members hadn’t pulled themselves from their review, they were about to.

Rachel Berry was pissed.

  
  


She stared toward the wings, where her assistant sat, staring at her own paper. She only looked up when Rachel screamed, “Who wrote this, Tina?!”

———

  
  


It takes her almost 20 minutes to calm down, and in that time, Tina had dutifully arrived at her side with a bottle of a water and a Xanax.

She didn’t take the pill, but was more than happy to gulp down almost the full bottle of water. It seemed to sizzle in her stomach as she drank; her body boiling with fury. She pressed the cold bottle to the back of her neck, slightly embarrassed when she came through the haze of deep seated hatred.

“You okay?” Tina asked softly, staring past her and toward the cast that sat on stage behind them, who were mumbling amongst themselves and glancing tentative glances toward her direction. They knew Rachel could be a little bullet when she wanted to be, but they hadn’t quite seen the extent to which she could be angered.

“I’m fine,” She took several deep breaths and turned her eyes up to Tina, who was once again looking at her, “Don’t look at me like that, T.”

Tina shrugged; she had gone to school with Rachel, and had been friends since they were in diapers. She knew how wrapped up Rachel would get when it came to her abilities as a performer. She was certain, in fact, that Rachel had once sent a girl to a crack house because she had seen her as a threat.

Sure, it wasn’t one if Rachel’s finest moments, but she had changed over the years. Rachel knew she wasn’t perfection incarnate, and no matter how much it killed her to admit, there were definitely better singers than her. Barbra Streisand was her idol for a reason, and she could only hope to attain her level of perfection.

  
  


But no emotion, really? Even Tina found it hard to believe, but unfolded the paper once more when Rachel asked, softly, throat slightly sore from screamed, “Is there a name?”

“Reviewed by Quinn Fabray.”

  
  


———

  
  


She thought she had calmed down, but once her cab pulled up outside the office of The New York Times, her rage just seemed to return.

She demanded to know how such an asinine review could be taken seriously. No emotion, really? She poured everything she had into each and every performance she had ever done, and granted, it had been opening night and the nerves were certainly there, but she was a  _ professional. _

She didn’t feel incredibly professional when she stormed through the doors and narrowed her tunnel vision onto a petite redhead sat behind an overwhelmingly large reception desk. The phone was ringing off the hook, and the redhead looked incredibly flustered, if only Rachel cared.

She stomped toward the desk and slammed her copy of the Times onto it. The redhead stared up at her with wide eyes, phone pressed to her ear, and mouth agape.

“Where is Quinn Fabray?”

  
  


It really wasn’t a question, more of a demand. The receptionist cupped her hand over the phone, made some little chatter and promptly hung up. It took a few moments, but after adjusting herself in her seat and setting a large smile on her face, she gave the fuming ball of fury before her her undivided attention.

“Can I help you?”

  
  


Rachel stared at her, eyes flat and dead, “Where is Quinn Fabray?” A beat, and when it seemed the redhead had no intention of doing anything, she gritted her teeth through a smile, “Please?”

  
  


She honestly wasn’t this cruel, and always treated people with the same respect that she demanded from others. Today, however, it seemed her manners had taken a long vacation.

The review had shaken her, almost to her core. She had heard many things from her time on the Broadway scene; this certainly wasn’t her first rodeo. Her nose was too big, her attitude too grating, too short, too annoying.

But Quinn Fabray’s words had settled deep inside her mind; no emotion. Never once had she heard such an opinion from her peers. Her fathers had been brought to tears from her singing, her Glee club teacher had applauded her vocal and emotional range, and her teachers at NYADA had said she needed work but nothing as brutal as that one review.

Rachel Berry had earned her spot as a leading lady in Broadway through hard work, blood, sweat and tears. She had been ripped down from the podium she had settled herself upon and raised herself back up time and time again. So why couldn’t she this time?

The redhead, Emma, she had noticed from her name tag, shifted her chair toward her computer and typed softly, but only after pumping some Purell onto her palms and working it through.

“Okay!” Emma beamed up at her, and Rachel for a second figured she might have been high. Whose eyes were truly that big? “You want to go to the end of the foyer, head toward the elevator, go to the twenty-second floor and it should be the third door on your right.”

Rachel dragged the newspaper from the desktop and gripped it tightly in her first, “Thank you for your time.”

She half meant it.

  
  


The elevator was cramped and the music was making her headache throb even harder; millions had been pumped into the building to make it modern and an architectural beauty, but they still couldn’t rid themselves of the simply horrific Muzak that seemed to be stuck in every elevator around the world. Lord, why hadn’t she taken that damn Xanax when Tina had offered it?

Tina had offered to come, if only to make sure that Quinn Fabray came out the other end of the conversation with some form of sanity intact. It was a wild bet if this Quinn Fabray  actually would survive a civil conversation, as Rachel had put it, but Rachel had declined. She would see what this reviewer had meant and fix it immediately; surely it was a printing problem. Yes, it must have been.

The elevator arrived with a sharp ding and Rachel disembarked quickly, storming toward the office she needed. She arrived at the door, and took just a moment to herself. She calmed her racing her heart, her anger, and took just one deep breath. It barely worked, but she figured it was worth a shot. She gripped the handle and stormed inside, “How dare-“

Her mouth clamped shut.

  
  


Before her, several dozen eyes turned to stare at her. Shit. She shifted from foot to foot and twisted the newspaper between her two hands. This wasn’t a one person office, not by far.

“Uh, can we help you miss?” The man closer to her swivelled in his chair to face her, pushing the horn rimmed glasses that had slipped down the slope of his nose.

Shit. “Uhm.”

  
  


He waited a beat, turned to the colleague closest to him, and shrugged gently before turning back to her, “Do you have the right office?”

“Q-Quinn Fabray,” She managed quietly, and when the man leaned forward slightly, commenting he couldn’t quite hear her, she repeated, “Quinn Fabray.”

The name alone infuriated her. She looked up to the rest of the office, no longer affected by the gazes that burned holes into her skin. She took a heaving breath.

_ “Where is Quinn Fabray?” _

  
  


She didn’t mean to shout it, honestly she didn’t, and she felt bad for making a woman in the corner of the room almost shake from the tone of her voice. No one spoke, and she felt her anger grow exponentially. Had that ditzy redhead sent her to the wrong office?

The question was going to be repeated, whether the occupants of the room liked it or not, and she only stopped herself when blonde hair emerged from behind a low cubicle wall, eyes peering over. It took a second, but Quinn Fabray stood in all her glory.

  
  


A white blouse, glasses hanging from the collar, fitted grey pants with low heels that completed the look. Flowing blonde hair splashed across her shoulders and drifted toward her upper back. A pale beauty, almost angelic. It took Rachel aback, and she had no idea why.

“I’m Quinn Fabray.”

  
  


Rachel heaved a breath as her eyes narrowed in on her, “We need to talk, Miss Theatre Critic.” She was already storming toward her before she even registered her feet moving.

Soon she was at the woman’s desk, and waited until she had settled back down into her seat before slamming the newspaper down on the desk. “I read your review.”

Quinn raised an eyebrow, eyes slowly drifting to the paper before looking back up at the incredibly small woman that stood above her, “From your tone and how you stormed in here, am I right to assume that you don't quite agree with the review I posted on Waitress?"

Of course she knew who she was. Naturally, on stage, she was dressed in a drab blue and white waitress uniform, face clean of makeup, hair piled on top of her head. She looked completely different, but Rachel had one of those faces you didn’t quite see every day. Her nose alone was enough to pull her out of a line-up.

“You know very well that I don’t agree.” She planted her hands on her hips, staring at the woman before her. Quinn didn’t seem to want to speak, especially when she turned back to her computer and typed for a little bit. “Are you going to say anything?”

“I was in the middle of a paragraph,” Quinn glanced up and that damn eyebrow flicked up again, “Just be patient.”

If she wanted pissed off before, she certainly was now. How dare this woman have her stood there, waiting, after she had taken time out of her busy schedule to have this conversation. Her fingers tapped a furious beat on her hips as she waited, and it took everything she had to not tap her foot in obvious impatience.

  
  


The other writers in the office had long since turned back to their own work, and the mindless clicking of keyboard keys was starting to drill Rachel’s head from a headache all the way toward a full blown migraine. Quinn’s typing was soft and delicate, but precise and proficient.

It didn’t take long for Quinn to finish her paragraph, but it felt like an age to Rachel. Soon, the blonde was turning to face her and picked up the newspaper, flicking through the crumpled pages toward the theatre reviews.

Hers had been right at the top that given day, and she felt a swell of pride hit her square in the chest. She had come a long way from being a freelance; working dead end stories that no one really paid attention to in newspapers that no one really bought. It had taken her years to land her dream job, and it never grew old seeing her words in black and white in the Times.

She skimmed through it quickly, and Rachel watched those hazel eyes dance across the words. There was an extreme silence between them, and Rachel half wondered if she had made the critic uncomfortable with how forceful she had been. True, she was annoyed, but she had never really reacted like this before. It was new to her too. She had been annoyed, so angry she cried, but had never felt so angry that she had to track someone down.

“So,” Rachel felt her body relax when Quinn placed the paper down and looked at her, “What did you not agree with?”

Rachel balked - was she being serious?

  
  


“The part where you wrote, in detail I might add, how disappointed you were that I didn’t deliver my solo with emotion?” She scoffed, “I find it quite deplorable that you believe I didn’t put my heart and soul into that number.”

Quinn leaned back in her chair with a soft sigh, “Miss Berry-,”

  
  


“Rachel.”

  
  


A soft smile, “Rachel, I fully believe that you did put all your heart into the number, but I couldn’t help but feel as if something was missing. I’m a critic for a reason; I’m supposed to look in depth to each and every performance I watch. I wasn’t trying to make you feel bad, or   


that you didn’t have a good voice; I just felt a little disappointed when it didn’t hit me square in the chest like it really should have.”

The singer scoffed, eyes wide, “I got a standing ovation, you were there, and you saw it. I must have made those people feel something if I received that sort of praise.”

“Those people aren’t theatre critics.”

  
  


Well. She opened her mouth to refute, but was shocked to find she honestly had no reply that made any sense. Her mind darted between screaming out in fury, or just bawling her eyes out on the floor. She had never been rendered speechless in her twenty-six years of life and it certainly wasn’t about to start now.

“How can I change your mind?”

  
  


Quinn smirked, ever so slightly, “What are you suggesting?”

  
  


Rachel bolstered herself, crossing her arms over her chest, “I’ll sing for you again, the same song, to show you I have the emotional range that you desire as a critic.”

“Forgive me, Rachel, but you just told me you put your heart and soul into that solo, what would change now?”

Speechless, again. Her mind scrambled once more, trying to figure out a solution. She couldn’t let this lay; she couldn’t let that review sit in that damn paper without an addendum being made.

“Well, I’ll…” She hadn’t expected this at all. She had believed there was a problem with the review itself; maybe Quinn had gotten confused with another musical she had written, but…

“Rachel,” Quinn suddenly sounded tired, “I really am busy, and I have to get this piece done in the next few hours. Could we perhaps do this another time?”

She was being turned away? No, she certainly was not done!

  
  


“Miss Fabray-,”

  
  


“Quinn.”

  
  


Rachel bit her tongue, trying to bite back from complaining about being interrupted, but she continued regardless, “ _ Quinn _ _ _ , I know you’re a busy woman, but I am also, but a review like that is damaging to my career, as a singer, as an actress. It was only opening night, maybe…” It killed her to admit it, “Maybe the nerves got to me. Maybe something went wrong, just maybe. But I need to prove to you that I can sing with emotion.”

Quinn seemed to toy with the idea, but only for a moment, “The review is final, Rachel. You knew that critics turned up on opening night, that’s never changed. I write was I see and feel, and that’s what my readers need.”

“I understand that-,”

  
  


Interrupted again.

  
  


“No, you don’t. I can’t change the review, and even if I could, I refuse to. It’s printed, it’s done. Use this as a learning experience.” She turned back to her computer, “Thank you for letting me know your thoughts.”

She had been dismissed, and she honestly couldn’t think of anything else to say that could possibly change the critics mind. Words failed to describe how she felt as she left the office that day; upset, angry, confused, maybe?

It was only when she was back in a cab, and slumped in the back seat that those feelings began to change to only one; determination.

She would make Quinn Fabray see how talented she was, even if it killed her. Her dream would not be ruined by one damn review, she refused. She was Rachel Berry, and when she had a point to prove, she proved the damn point.

\---

  
  


“Rachel, you’re on in ten minutes, what the hell are you doing?”

  
  


Tina rushed into her friend’s dressing room to find her hunched over her laptop, hair half done, but thankfully in costume. “I’ll be there in a minute, just one more minute.”

  
  


“What are you-,” She looked over Rachel’s shoulder and looked at the varying links that sat in an email, “Rach?” There was a set list also, accompanying the rush of links that dotted the screen. Songs like I Dreamed a Dream, Don’t Rain on My Parade, Whispering, Papa Do You Hear Me, just to name a few.

“I’m sending that critic a list of songs from my repertoire. She can listen to them and see that I can sing with emotion.”

“Where did these videos come from?”

  
  


Rachel tapped harshly on the send button and slammed her laptop shut, before returning to pull her hair up into a sloppy bun. “Some are from my old MySpace account, others from shows I did at NYADA.”

Tina sighed, “You really think this is going to work? Why can’t you just let it go?”

  
  


Rachel glared up at her through the mirror, “I can sing with emotion, Tina. Quinn Fabray is wrong, and I intend to prove it. I guarantee after the show I’ll have an email in my inbox with her apologizing profusely for making such a mistake.”

It took everything Tina had to not roll her eyes, “Whatever you say, Rach. Come on, you’re on in five.”

\---

  
  


There was no email in her inbox when she returned from another successful show, and she was honestly baffled.

She refreshed her inbox manically over the next couple of hours, even when she was sat up in bed, exhausted. It had been one day since the review had been posted and it set her on edge; the sooner it was taken down, the better. She cared not for Quinn’s excuses on how the review was final; she would have to take it down once she was proven wrong.

When she woke up the next morning, her laptop battery almost flat from being left on all night, she noted the time. Eight am, and one new email. She rubbed the tired from her eyes, and with a grin, she clicked on the email.

  
  


**From: Quinn Fabray (** [ ******q.fabray@nytimes.com** ](mailto:qfabray@nytimes.com) ******)**

**To: Rachel Berry (** [ **rachelberry93@outlook.com** ****](mailto:rachelberry93@outlook.com) **)** ****

**Subject: Re: To prove a point**

  
  


**_Rachel, your point has yet to be proven. Whilst your singing has come along technically over the years, something is still missing. Hope this helps._ **

**_Quinn Fabray_ **

**_Arts & Theatre_ **

**_The New York Times_ **

  
  


It most certainly didn’t help, and after sitting dumbfounded for a few minutes, eyes scanning the email over and over again, she slumped back in defeat. Even in her old songs? There was truly nothing there? She put everything she had into every song she sung; what could possibly be missing?

She wanted to give up, she truly did, but the thought of defeat was something that Rachel couldn’t quite process. Something had to be done, something drastic even. With a smirk, Rachel pulled up her Spotify and got to work.

Quinn Fabray wouldn’t know what hit her.

  
  


\---

  
  


It had taken almost a week to put her plan into effect, but on Monday, one of the infrequent days she had off, she was putting the final touches to her beloved plan. The plan, expertly named ‘Get Quinn Fabray to Realize She Is Wrong and Make Sure the Review is Taken Down’ or GQFTRSIWMSTRTD for short, was finally complete.

The song was perfect, and it was enough to show off her vocal range and the emotion she could inject. A song of needing to be a star, needing to be good enough to make the bright lights of Hollywood or Broadway. She was already there, but, needs must.

The song was on a special playlist on her phone, the instrumental version of course, but Rachel Berry would never stoop so low as to mime. She wasn’t a criminal, and it  _ was  _ _ _ criminal to mime. The thought alone sent a shudder down her spine; she could sing this, from the heart, with the power and desperation that it deemed, and she would change one Quinn Fabray’s mind.   


Everything was settled, and after dressing for the day in jeans and a simple shirt, she slipped on some sneakers. No need to dress up today, she would be putting on a show, a minor one, but a show regardless. She needed the freedom of movement, and her simple outfit allowed that. She did, however, spend almost an hour on her hair and makeup to make sure she looked perfect. Hair lightly curled, just a touch of blush and lip gloss.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and she picked it up promptly, “Agent Chang-A-Lang, status update.”

There was a pause, then a very soft sigh over the rushing cars of the city, “I wish you wouldn’t call me that, Rachel.”

How dare she! “My name is Agent StarBerry, Chang-A-Lang; please refer to me as so.”

  
  


Another pause, and Rachel was slowly beginning to lose patience, it sounded almost like it was said between gritted teeth, but she acknowledged it regardless, “Agent StarBerry, the target has left her home and is on foot toward the subway. Arrival in the city expected in the next forty minutes.”

Excellent, just what she had been planning. Tina (Agent Chang-A-Lang) had been on reconnaissance for the past four days, tracking one Quinn Fabray’s movements throughout the city when she worked. It seemed as if Quinn Fabray was a creature of habit, and once leaving her home at precisely seven thirty each morning, she took the subway and promptly arrived at eight o’five in the city. She would then walk on foot to a nearby Starbucks, and once finished with her coffee order, she walked ten minutes to the nearby Times building to start her day at eight forty-five.

She worked until almost five in the building, and if a review was needed, she would head toward Broadway, or otherwise, head back home. She was a creature of habit, and Rachel couldn’t help but be thankful for it. She honestly had no time to follow Quinn Fabray around New York City, that’s why she’d sent Tina after all.

“Rachel-,”

  
  


Rachel coughed gently as she reached for her keys and left her apartment, making sure to lock the door behind her.

“Ugh. Agent StarBerry, how long do I have to keep doing this? I feel weird following this poor woman each day.”

Rachel paid no attention to her friend’s complaining and hit the button on the elevator, “What is she wearing?”

“W-Wait, what?”

  
  


“What is she wearing, Agent Chang-A-Lang?”

  
  


A beat, and a long pause, “Oh my god, Rachel, are you making me follow her because you think she’s hot?”

Her eyes rolled so hard that she’s shocked they didn’t fall out of her head, “No, I most certainly am not. If Starbucks is packed, I may need to decipher her location via her outfit. She isn’t the only blonde in New York.”

Another pause, and as Rachel disembarked the elevator, she realized she was growing tired of all the pausing. She had made sure to teach Tina the etiquette of espionage, and it included precise information being delivered quickly. Her PowerPoint had been a waste, it seemed.

“Oh, well, she’s wearing a black blazer with matching black pants, she’s wearing a white blouse too.” Another pause as Rachel reached her hand out for a passing cab, and grumbling when one shot straight past her. Damn her short stature. “Oh, and some ballet flats.”

It took an age, but she had finally received the information needed, and once processing it, she thanked her agent, told her to keep an eye out just in case anything changed, and promptly hung up. She grinned when a cab finally slowed to a stop beside her. The plan started now.

\---

  
  
  


It had been tight, time wise. She had glanced at her watch almost every couple of second, urging the driver to go faster, who grumbled and told her the traffic was always this bad in the early hours of the day. For a moment, she thought she wouldn’t make it, but when she pulled up outside the Starbucks, she practically threw her money at the driver, not caring about the change and dived out of the car.

She was already past the intended time of the arrival that she had set herself, only by three minutes, but it was still too long. The queue in Starbucks was extraordinarily large, naturally, and she sang her lucky praises when she scoped out the store through the window. Quinn was toward the front, maybe second or third in line, her face stuck in a book.

“Okay…” Rachel bounced on her feet, “Okay…” She was psyching herself up; she had no fears of crowds, nothing of the sort, but she had never done anything like this before. In High School she had sung impromptu songs at school assemblies and in the lunch hall, but that was High School; these people were grown adults, busy adults for that matter, she could only hope they wouldn’t cause too much of a hassle with what she was about to do.

She pushed open the door and made her way into the throng of people, their noses in their phones, or talking animatedly to their friends or work buddies. It would be difficult to get near the front, but she started to make her way through the crowd regardless. Most people towered over her, but her large voice managed to get their attention, “Excuse me! I need to get to the front.”

“Wait in line. You know what a line is, right?” One man had remarked and with a roll of her eyes, she tried another man next to him, who was much more accommodating.

Slowly but surely, she made her way up front, after being physically assaulted with elbows to her chest and a few knocks to her head as she squeezed through the crowd. Quinn was already waiting at the receiving area, her nose still buried in her book and Rachel took a long and deep breath to calm herself. She adjusted her clothes, askew from the crowd, and brushed down her hair with her fingers.

“Latte Macchiato for Quinn!” A loud and boisterous voice shouted from behind the counter, and after putting her book away in her messenger bag, Quinn promptly took the offered drink and headed over to the sugar stand. The time was now.

  
  


Rachel steeled herself and headed toward the blonde, before promptly hearing, “Hey! No cutting!” And a hard shove to her back, sending her sprawling to the floor. It winded her, but only slightly, and as she managed to get her bearings, she looked up to see Quinn Fabray looking down at her with an incredulous look.

“Quinn!” Rachel stood, brushed the dust from her pants and glowered behind her, “Some people are just rude, don’t you think?”

The journalist had yet to say anything, eyes still wide, before seemingly breaking free from her quiet spell. She continued to stir her sugar into her coffee before discarding the small wooden stick, “Rachel, what are you doing here?”

“I’m here to prove a point.”

  
  


Confusion seemed to mar Quinn’s face, but never had enough time to ask what Rachel was referring to before Rachel was pulling her phone free from her back pocket and grabbing a nearby chair. She stood tall above it and Quinn’s eyes widened. What the hell was going on?

“Can I have people’s attention please?” Nothing, the chatter continued, and with a huff, hands on her hips, she heaved in a big breath, “ _ Excuse  _ _ _ me!” Still nothing, damn her small stature once more.

“Shut up!” The voice was loud and almost knocked Rachel straight off her seat, but people quietened down, her head shot toward the counter where a rotund woman stood, grin on her face, “The little lady has something to say.”

Who was she calling little? She almost jumped off the chair and onto the counter, but Quinn was at her side, looking up at her, “What the  _ hell  _ _ _ are you doing?” She hissed, trying to pull her down from the chair.

She steeled herself and looked out to the crowd, that both looked at her with confusion and annoyance, “I’m here today to prove a point.” She swore she heard Quinn mutter something about God under her breath, but continued regardless, “I am the lead actress in the Broadway show Waitress; I’m sure most of you have seen it.”

If crickets lived in coffee shops, you probably could have heard them.

  
  


“Rachel, you’re embarrassing yourself, get down.”

The show must go on. “Regardless, I was given a scathing review by the New York Times and I am here today to prove that I can sing with emotion.”

“Will you just get on with it?” A woman butted in, obviously bored, “I need a coffee and I need to go to work.”

“Well,” Rachel’s hands dropped from her waist, it wasn’t exactly the reception she had been anticipating, but at least it was being allowed. The woman behind the counter didn’t seem bothered either, and just continued to quietly make the coffees on order while Rachel did her business. “Okay!” She jumped down and unlocked her phone.

“Rachel, I need to go to work, can’t this wait?”

  
  


She grinned up at Quinn as she pulled open Spotify, “I will only take a few minutes of your time, Quinn. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity after all; you’re hearing a Broadway actress live in public without all the glamour and glitz.”

Quinn didn’t seem convinced, “Can’t we do this somewhere else? Somewhere less public?”

  
  


This was happening, whether Quinn Fabray liked it or not, and as the first notes of the song begun to play, Quinn sighed softly, her cheeks red hot with embarrassment. What had she done that was so bad to deserve this?

Rachel was already in the role; the woman who needed to be seen as a star, and she  _ was _ one. She left the phone flat on the sugar stand and took a step back to face Quinn, who clutched her coffee close to her chest, almost as if it was a comfort.

_ Fade in on a girl / With a hunger for fame, and a face and a name to remember. / The past fades away because as of this day, Norma Jean’s gone, she’s moving on…  _

Her voice was soft, but strong and powerful; she had practiced this one song to perfection and it showed. This song in particular showed off her vocal range perfectly, and she knew she was nailing it. There was no more grumbling behind her, and Quinn’s eyes widened.

  
  


_ Her smile and your fantasies play a duet, that will make you forget where you are / The music starts playing, it's the beat of her heart saying… / Let me be your star. _

Quinn seemed increasingly uncomfortable and after shifting around Rachel, she quickly made her way toward the crowd, hoping to disappear within it. There was more of them now, apparently people who had been passing in the street had heard the singing and wanted to see what was going on.

_ Flashback to a girl, with a song in her heart, as she's waiting to start the adventure. / The fire and drive that make dreams come alive… / They fill her soul. / She's in control… _

The crowd grinned at Rachel as she passed through them, pushing her way toward Quinn who glanced over her shoulder, blonde hair pushed back in the wind as she made her escape through the door. She wasn’t going to get away just yet. She hadn’t finished!

Rachel rushed through the door and caught up to Quinn whose shoulders slumped as soon as she caught a glimpse of the singer over her shoulder. She continued to walk, hoping to keep some distance. People were staring, after all.

_ The drama, the laughter, the tears just like pearls / Well, they're all in this girl's repertoire. / It's all for the taking, and it's magic we'll be making; / Let me be your star. _

Rachel kept up to the blonde as much as she could whilst keeping excellent breath control; she was a professional after all. She pushed up the volume on her phone with a few taps on her fingers; thanking her lucky stars she had a phone with decent audio. The cars were loud, but she could be louder.

Quinn sighed softly as Rachel came up beside her, nudging her ever so softly with her elbow as she continued to sing. She felt like she was being pranked, or on one of those silly musical TV shows. This just didn’t happen in the real world.

_ I’ll just have to forget the hurt that came before, / Forget what used to be. / The past is on the cutting room floor, / The future is here with me, / Choose me! _

With a grin, Rachel dropped back when Quinn turned to face her, walking backwards slowly, an eyebrow flicked up. It was starting to get quite funny, the embarrassment aside. In all her   


years, she had never had someone sing  _ at  _ _ _ her in the street, and something told her this may not be the last time.

Rachel grinned; she had her now, right in the palm of her hand. She pushed forward, close to the girl before her and put her heart into it.

_ Fade up on a star with it all in her sights… / All the love and the lights that surround her. / Someday she'll think twice / Of the dues and the price. _

Quinn smirked and turned back around, head shaking softly, before taking a small sip of her rapidly cooling coffee. What a day this was turning out to be, and it helped that Rachel was actually  _ quite  _ _ _ the singer. She no longer noticed the crowded streets and the people that stared at them as they passed.

_ She’ll have to pay / But not today / Then she'll do all she can, for the love of one man, / And for millions who love from afar. / I'm what you've been needing, / It's all here in my heart's pleading, Let me be your star! _

Everything quieted around them, and some cheers echoed throughout the street. Rachel fought back the urge to bow. Quinn stopped and turned toward her again. When had they reached the Times building?

With a heaving breath, Rachel grinned up at Quinn, “So?”

A slight smile tugged on Quinn’s lips, “So, what?”

With a huff, Rachel pushed her phone back into her pocket, “What do you think? Enough emotion?”

Quinn shrugged a shoulder and dropped her still half full cup into a bin, “I’ll let you know.” She walked away, and held back her laughter as she caught sight of Rachel’s mouth agape, eyes wide. She only managed to hold it in until she crossed the path over to the Times building, where she promptly laughed as soon as she made it through the doors.

Emma stared at her, thoroughly confused, and Quinn took a few seconds to calm herself before shaking her head, “Oh boy,”

  
  


This was certainly going to be an interesting day.

\---------------------

**From: Quinn Fabray (** [ ******q.fabray@nytimes.com** ](mailto:qfabray@nytimes.com) ******)**

**To: Rachel Berry (** [ **rachelberry93@outlook.com** ****](mailto:rachelberry93@outlook.com) **)** ****

**Subject: Your impromptu performance**

  
  


**_Regarding your performance in both Starbucks and the street earlier this morning, well done. Technically perfect, once again. The effort you have put into your performance is outstanding, although I don’t wish to know the details on how much preparation was needed. I will live in the belief that it was spur of the moment; however, your performance still lacked a distinct amount of emotion._ **

**_Unfortunately, begging me on the street, will not give you the desired results. The review still stands, I hope you understand._ **

**_Kind regards,_ **

  
  


**_Quinn Fabray_ **

**_Arts & Theatre_ **

**_The New York Times_ **

  
  


She could have screamed.

  
  


And she did.

  
  


\---

  
  


Her mind had been completely entrapped by Quinn’s email. For days after, she continued to keep that email in her inbox, and often returned to it to see if she had missed anything. How was she still missing emotion in her voice? She had put on a show, in public for goodness sake; she had put herself out there, regardless of the public’s reaction, and even they had liked it eventually.

She thought she had done spectacularly, and no matter how much she tried to figure out what Quinn meant, for the life of her, she couldn’t understand. The director of Waitress had nothing to offer either, citing that Rachel was absolutely fine both during rehearsals and real time performances; there was nothing to stage. She was technically perfect.

That word again; technically. Her voice was perfect; she hit all the notes, acquired the correct pitch for each song she had sung, she could do anything with her voice that she put her mind to. That, however, didn’t mean that she could reach that depth that Quinn seemed to seek. She thought she had, but it seemed like rehearsing the same song over and over again didn’t really add anything to it.

She had to feel the words, make them feel real. She was pissed, and she was going to make sure that Quinn Fabray knew just how annoyed she was at her words. Leaving the theatre one night, she had seen a familiar sign; she had seen the show before, and it seemed like a song would be perfect for her next opportunity to change Quinn’s mind.

She listened to it on the cab ride home and felt it hit her in the pit of her stomach. It felt right, it felt understated and angry. It was perfect. She pulled out her phone and dialled her assistant.

“Agent Chang-A-Lang.”

A sigh, “I literally left you twenty minutes ago, what’s wrong now?”

“I need you to fix an arrangement for me; I can’t seem to find one online. It’s imperative you do this immediately, I want it by tomorrow at the latest.”

“Rachel-,”

“Agent Chang-A-Lang, you know what to call me.”

“Ugh, Agent StarBerry, look, I’m exhausted and I’m pretty sure my bed is screaming my name right now. Mike is already annoyed that I’m barely home as it is, especially with you making me tail Quinn Fabray everywhere she goes. Do you actually know how boring it is to wait outside the Times building with nothing to do?”

She honestly felt terrible; Mike and Tina had been together since freshman year of High School and they rarely spent time apart, but since becoming Rachel’s assistant she rarely had free time to spend with her beloved boyfriend.

“I do apologize,” She sighed softly, “I really do. Look, do this one thing for me and then take the next few days off. Spend some quality time with Mike and have fun.”

Tina seemed to lighten then, “Are you sure? You won’t need me?”

Rachel smiled to herself, “Of course, just do this one thing and we’ll call it even.”

“Okay, text me the name of the song and I’ll see what I can do.”

\---

It took Tina most of the evening to find the elusive arrangement; luckily she had some contacts on Broadway and managed to track them down at the source themselves. She quickly photographed them and emailed them to Rachel to peruse. The singer was quick to call and thank her friend.

“Thanks T, I really appreciate this.”

“You’re welcome. I’ve already told Mike I have a few days off, he’s ecstatic, thank you.”

“Not to worry, I’m happy to let you take some R&R.” A thought shot through her and she chuckled, “Hey T, if you ever get married to Mike will you take his last name or do a double barrelled?”

A pause and this one was just funny, “Uh?”

“If you double barrelled you’d be Tina Chang-Chang.” She barked out a laugh, “Then you’d be Agent Chang-Chang-A-Lang.” She was laughing so loudly she didn’t hear Tina grumble and hang up.

It took her awhile to calm down; she was certain she was slowly going insane from exhaustion, but her mind refused to quiet down. She pulled up the email and grinned.

Quinn Fabray certainly would be burned by  _ her _ words this time.

\---

  
  


Something inside her told her that this was probably going too far, but she quickly locked down those niggling thoughts. She was determined now; she had a point to prove and she had every intention of letting those points be proven. Emma looked up at her from the reception desk as she entered the lobby, and watched the diminutive figure storm toward the elevators. 

Once again, she wasn’t going so far as to dress up, but she had taken the time to French braid her hair into a classic bun at the nape of her neck. She had the character down pat; she had seen Hamilton more times than she could count and she knew that she could pull the emotions that Phillipa Soo had so precisely created for Eliza’s character.

In the elevator she thought better of her plan; maybe she was taking this way too seriously. Several Broadway actors and actresses had more or less received reviews that weren’t complimentary, but something about Quinn’s words had settled wrong with her. It wasn’t right, it wasn’t  _ fair _ . The review chewed her up inside, and since reading it, she hadn’t really managed to fully concentrate on her role or get a good night’s sleep.

She would change it. She would get the sereneness back in her life once again.

Her phone was fully charged. She had made sure, the song ready to go. It had only taken her two days to get the song down pat, and there was no more stalling left to do. It was time to fight or flee; and she was definitely fighting.

She calmly entered the office of the New York Times Arts & Theatre department and walked toward Quinn Fabray’s desk. She saw the blonde hair above the divider, pulled back in a sloppy ponytail, and as she got closer, she saw the glasses that sat delicately on her nose. For a second, Rachel could have found her attractive, but she shook the thought free and continued, stopping beside the desk she needed.

Quinn looked up with a light smile, which slowly dropped away when she saw the look in Rachel’s eyes. “Rachel? Why are you here?” 

“I have something to say, Quinn Fabray.” The levelled tone almost sent a shudder down Quinn’s spine, and looking around Rachel’s body, she noticed that other writers in the room had begun to look up from their work to see what was going on, “And you will listen.”

Fear shot through Quinn’s body, “Rachel, please, not here. I work here.”

More and more people were looking at them both, and Quinn felt her face burn as Rachel placed her phone on her desk, before gently dropping the tip of her finger on the play button. She slumped back in her seat with a heavy sigh; she couldn’t stop it now.

A gentle melody erupted from Rachel’s phone, and Quinn noted that the incessant typing had suddenly stopped. Everyone was watching and listening, and she knew from the melody that it wasn’t going to be a happy go lucky song like the first one. Maybe Rachel had listened to her, this time.

_ I saved every letter you wrote me / From the moment I read them, I knew you were mine / You said you were mine / I thought you were mine. _

Quinn gripped the armrests of her chair tightly, uncomfortable and incredibly annoyed. What would people think? Why _ this _ song?

_ Do you know what Angelica said, when we saw your first letter arrive? / She said “be careful with that one love / He will do what it takes to survive.” /  _

Suddenly, Rachel was reaching behind her, pulling out that familiar crumpled newspaper that had been slammed on her desk over a week ago. She held it out, holding it delicately in her hands.

_ You and your words flooded my senses, / Your sentences left me defenceless, / You built me palaces out of paragraphs, / You build cathedrals… / _

This was rather tame compared to her previous performance, Quinn noted, but refused to pull her eyes away from Rachel. Her eyes burned, and the emotion that she so desperately wanted Rachel to feel was on the cusp of being real. She held her breath, waiting for it to break free.

_ I’m re-reading the letters you wrote me, / I’m searching and scanning for answers in every line, for some kind of sign. / And when you were mine, the world seemed to burn, burn. /  _

Rachel’s fingers danced against the edges of the paper, which was pulled open to the particular page of the review. Quinn’s review, her words, seemed to blend together and Rachel could make barely any sense of them.

_ You published the letters she wrote you _ _ , /  _ _ You told the whole world how you brought _ _ t _ _ his girl into our bed. / In clearing your name, you have ruined our lives. / _

Quinn bit her bottom lip, and moved her hand to tap her finger on the pause button. This needed to stop; her colleagues would talk, she knew they would. She wasn’t ready for that; she wasn’t ready for those questions. Rachel caught her low and spun the phone away, landing upside down on the floor.

_Do you know what Angelica said when she read what you'd done?_ _/_ _She said_ _"You have married an Icarus_ _. /_ _He has flown too close to the sun." /_

Quinn jumped when the newspaper was slapped down on her desk, Rachel’s hands clasped on the edges of the table, her eyes staring down at the paper.

_ You and your words, obsessed with your legacy... _ _ /  _ _ Your sentences border on senseless _ _ , /  _ _ And you are paranoid in every paragraph _ _ , /  _ _ How they perceive you _ _ /  _ _ You, you, you... _   
  
Rachel was shaking, and Quinn felt her heart thump hard in her chest. She was close, she knew it; she was close to  _ feeling _ . 

_I'm erasing myself from the narrative / Let future historians wonder how Eliza_ _r_ _eacted when you broke her heart / You have torn it all apart_ _. /_ _I am watching it_ _burn_ _. /_ _Watching it burn._  
  
Rachel looked up to her, brown eyes dark and dangerous and Quinn lost her breath once more. The singer gripped the paper and began to rip it vigorously with each sentence. Quinn jumped and watched the confetti fall to the floor; her words, gone, fallen into obscurity.

_ The world has no right to my heart, _ _ /  _ _ The world has no place in our bed. / They don't get to know what I said _ _. /  _ _ I'm burning the memories _ _ , /  _ _ Burning the letters that might have redeemed you _ _. / Y _ _ ou forfeit all rights to my heart _ _ , /  _ _ You forfeit the place in our bed _ _ ,  _ _ you sleep in your office instead. _ _ /  _ _ With only the memories _ _ o _ _ f when you were mine _ _. _

Rachel allowed the last few pieces of paper slip from her fingers, staring Quinn in the eye as she did. The blonde had still yet to move, and internally she screamed. She had it. She poured everything she had into the last line.

_ I hope that you burn. _

With a bow, low and deliberate, she picked up her phone and placed it in her pocket. “Thank you for your consideration.” 

Quinn watched her turn and promptly leave, closing the office door quietly behind her. The whole office was quiet, ominous, and after clearing her voice, her eyes darted around to her colleagues.

“I’m…really sorry guys, she just-,”

“Damn Fabray, you cheated? That’s damn cold.” 

“No, I didn’t, I-,”

Another voice, almost across the room, “Whatever you did, Quinn, you should sort that out quick smart. I doubt the editor appreciated that little musical number.”

Shit. The editor.

“Fabray,” And voice bellowed across the room, “My office, now.”

\---

To say she was antsy would be a complete understatement. She had fully expected an email in her inbox within a few minutes of leaving the office, but nothing had arrived.

She thought she may have gone too far; after all, who in their right mind would perform a musical number dead centre of a newspaper office?

What if Quinn  _ hated  _ her now? What if Quinn was going to write an editorial piece on one Rachel Berry, resident weirdo of Broadway, that refuses to take any form of critique?

Her mind swirled anxiously, and she wished she hadn’t told Tina she could have a few days off. She promised she wouldn’t bother her, she promised she wouldn’t call, but she desperately needed a friend.

She had fucked up royally, and there was no way she would be able to take it back. No matter how often she refreshed her inbox, hoping that Quinn would just say  _ something _ , it wouldn’t change the events of the past. 

Calling had been an option, of course, but every time she heard the voice of the editor from the Arts department, she had promptly freaked out and hung up. She had done it more times than she could count, and despised that she couldn’t muster the courage to do something as simple as apologise.

This had never happened before; she had never been unable to account for her mistakes, never been able to not apologise. What was different this time? What was so different about Quinn Fabray?

It had been days, countless performances that she wished would take her mind off the elusive theatre critic. It helped, until a point. Every time she performed her solo, the words from the review came back full force and assaulted her. One night, she almost choked.  _ Choked!  _ It never happened, and she refused to let it happen now. She needed something, anything.

She needed to say she was sorry.

In her dressing room, five days after the Burn incident, she toyed with her phone, spinning it slowly on her table. She needed to find the right words, something that would be sincere; real.

Nothing was coming and with a defeated sigh, she picked up her phone and typed.

**From: Rachel Berry (** [ **rachelberry93@outlook.com** ](mailto:rachelberry93@outlook.com) **)**

**To: Quinn Fabray (** [ **q.fabray@nytimes.com** ](mailto:q.fabray@nytimes.com) **)**

**Subject: N/A**

**_I’m sorry._ **

She read those two words over and over again, trying to add more. Nothing could quite add up, make it meaningful enough, and dejected, she hit send.

It was something, and even though it could probably never be enough, at least she had tried.

Another two days went by, agonisingly slow, and she felt herself going crazy. There was still nothing. She had checked every issue of the NY Times to see if Quinn had written anything scathing about her, but there had been nothing. All that Quinn Fabray wrote about, was her reviews, only two this week.

It was something, at least Quinn hadn’t been fired or something. She had never thought about what Quinn’s boss would think about her performance, and all it did was add to the guilt.

She could have gotten Quinn fired.

That night, with ten minutes to curtain call, her phone buzzed angrily against a can of hairspray and awoke her from her self-made pity party. A tentative glance deciphered the email was indeed from Quinn, and joy set in, only quickly to be replaced by dread.

_ What if she hates me? _

**From: Quinn Fabray (** [ **q.fabray@nytimes.com** ](mailto:q.fabray@nytimes.com) **)**

**To: Rachel Berry (** [ **rachelberry93@outlook.com** ](mailto:rachelberry93@outlook.com) **)**

**Subject: Re: N/A**

**_Never embarrass me at work again._ **

It…was something? It wasn’t as if she had completely admonished her, or said she was going to ruin her. It was open to interpretation.

Still on edge, she typed a reply.

**From: Rachel Berry (** [ **rachelberry93@outlook.com** ](mailto:rachelberry93@outlook.com) **)**

**To: Quinn Fabray (** [ **q.fabray@nytimes.com** ](mailto:q.fabray@nytimes.com) **)**

**Subject: Truce?**

**_I have no idea how to take your reply, but thank you for taking the time to talk to me. I know I’m sorry isn’t the best thing I could have possibly said but it’s all I had. Please allow to me to offer my most sincere apologies. If you would let me, I’d love to take you for a drink or something, just to talk?_ **

Five minutes to curtain, and instead of standing in the wings, soaking in the atmosphere from the crowd, she sat hunched over her dressing room table, hoping and praying. The reply was swift.

**_No singing?_ **

With a smile, Rachel typed out her reply and quickly left the room. The show was back on.

**_I promise._ **

They agreed on a time and date. Two days from the apology email, at the W Hotel in Times Square, a bustling cocktail lounge on the 7 th floor. Rachel had been there before, and the prices were astronomical. She could afford it; but could Quinn? How much did a journalist make anyway? She made a mental note to buy Quinn a few drinks.

The agreed upon time was four pm; Rachel had a show at seven, so she would make sure to curb how much she drank. She wanted to be three sheets to the wind, but she doubted the crowd that night would appreciate a lead actress that stumbled and fell off the stage.

Two drinks, she figured would be enough, she’d make them last.

She made sure to make herself presentable; a black long sleeve scoop neck jumper, tucked delicately into a pair of tailored grey shorts, her feet settled into her favourite pair of black heeled Mary Jane’s. It was a simple look, but upscale enough for the lounge.

She was sat at the bar, refusing to order until Quinn got there. She was fifteen minutes early, a bundle of nerves and she was sure she was close to a nervous breakdown. The bartender had noted her nerves as soon as she arrived and had taken the time to prepare a small tumbler for her to sip at.

“I didn’t order anything yet.”

He smiled softly, looking down at her, “I can tell you’re nervous. I think a little Dutch courage is needed, don’t you think?”

Rachel glanced down at the ruby liquid with apprehension, picking it up she delicately sniffed it; it was fruity, but couldn’t decipher the liquor. “Could I ask what it is?”

“It’s a surprise.” At her apprehensive look, he chuckled softly, “It won’t kill you, trust me.”

He had walked away by the time she mustered up the strength to try it. A mixture of mango and passion fruit exploded on her tongue as she took a sip, and the light burn of the liquor was soothing as she swallowed. This was a dangerous drink; it was beautiful, but if not drunk in moderation, she was sure she could end up paralytic. 

She’d almost finished most of it when the bartender returned, “So? How was it?”

“Delicious,” She remarked with a smile, “You’ll have to tell me the recipe.”

“Nah-ah,” He tapped his nose, “That’s a secret.”

“Shame, it’s lovely. Could I have another please, two actually, for when my friend arrives?”

He looked confused for a second, but his expression levelled out quickly, “Friend? You were shaking you were that nervous.”

“Oh, well,” She scoffed a soft laugh, “It’s a long story.”

He disappeared for a few minutes, noticing a patron that needed serving, before returning, “Unfortunately, I don’t have the time to ask for all the sordid little details.” Rachel rolled her eyes, “We’re getting busy, but I’ll make sure to come back with your drinks when your friend arrives.” 

He turned to leave, but extended his hand instead, “My name is Jesse by the way.”

Her beaming smile made him chuckle, “I’m Rachel, pleased to meet you, Jesse.”

When he walked away, she turned her attention back to her drink. She glanced at her watch, and noticed it was already past four. She figured Quinn was just running late, but something sat at the pit of her stomach; dread. Was she going to be stood up? Was this Quinn’s way of getting back at her stupid Burn number? Embarrassment traded off for revenge. It could happen.

She raised her glass and swallowed the rest of her cocktail in one mouth full and was about to swallow, “Getting started without me?” It caught in her throat, and as she tried to force it down, she coughed. A delightful spray of fruity liquor landed on the bar in front of her, and she was sure Jesse was laughing a little further up. 

“Wow, are you okay?” She felt a hand slap her back gently as she fumbled to stand up and grab the napkin that her tumbler had sat on.

“No, no, I’m fine.” She wiped the remainder off the liquid from the bar and turned, “Sor-,” 

_ Wow. _

Quinn Fabray stood before her, dressed in a royal blue dress, bodice laced, just enough to tease a show to the pale skin beneath. Rachel’s eyes dropped to where the stunning dress ended, mid-thigh. It took a second to drag her eyes away, and she had no idea why, to notice Quinn’s cream heels. She looked elegant, her golden hair down and curled.

What would Kurt have said? Snatched for the God’s?

“Rachel?”

Her eyes snapped back up, “Sorry,” No point in lying, “You, uhm, look fantastic.”

Quinn’s eyes softened, and Rachel took the time to notice how beautiful Quinn’s hazel eyes were.

“Thank you, you scrub up quite well yourself.” She wished she’s tried a little harder getting dressed that morning, all of a sudden. “Should we have a drink?”

Rachel nodded, ushering Quinn into the chair beside her. Jesse was over almost instantly, two drinks in hand. “Try not to decorate the bar with this one.” He chuckled softly as he handed Rachel hers.

If she could have smacked him, she would have, but Quinn was laughing next to her, deep and throaty and Rachel’s mouth went dry.

A careful sip later, she turned back to Quinn, who sat daintily on the stool, legs crossed regally. “Thank you for agreeing to this.”

Quinn shrugged a shoulder and took a sip of her drink, “It’s a free drink.”

Rachel’s mouth dropped, and when she caught Quinn’s smirk, she huffed, “That is not fair, Quinn Fabray.”

They both settled into quiet, the melodic piano lounge music filled the air around them. What was she going to say? Quinn didn’t look like she was going to speak, if anything, she looked distracted, staring at the liquor bottles that colourfully lined the wall of the bar.

“So, I know I apologised already but I would just reiterate how sorry I truly am for singing in your office. It was silly and I was just…annoyed, I suppose.”

Quinn turned to face her, the tip of her finger running slowly along the rim of her glass, “No matter how annoyed I make you, or even if I upset you with my words, you shouldn’t ever invade my place of work.” She sighed softly, “Look, Rachel, the review was not a personal attack on you, or how you sing; you’re an amazing singer. There’s just something missing.”

“You mean the lack of emotion in my voice?” Rachel rolled her eyes and pulled a sip from her drink. She really didn’t want to get angry, not now.

“It’s-,” Quinn looked up, trying to find the right words, “Not necessarily about a lack of emotion, you can put any emotion into your voice, but  _ feeling _ it and showing that in your eyes.” She chuckled, “It’s hard to describe, I’m sorry.”

Rachel regarded her as she drank; Quinn looked just as confused as she felt. She was an actress, she felt emotions every time she was on stage. She wouldn’t have been picked for the lead part if she didn’t convey that. So what was missing? What couldn’t Quinn see that everyone else apparently did?

“I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t complete every phase of the song, then.” Rachel muttered quietly, “I had considered bringing a bucket to burn copies of your review, but I didn’t want to risk setting off a fire alarm.” At Quinn’s wide eyed look, Rachel giggled, “It would ruin the song.”

Quinn scoffed and took a sip, “Thank heavens you didn’t do that then. Just stick to the singing, leave the dramatics to the stage.”

“Noted.” A pause, mulling over Quinn’s words, “How am I supposed to change anything if I don’t know what I’m looking for?”

Quinn promptly finished off her drink and raised from her stool, “I’ll be right back, bathroom break.” She made to move away but stopped, “I won’t say no to another drink.”

Rachel watched Quinn walk away before ushering Jesse over. “I get why you were nervous.”

The singer frowned, “What are you talking about?”

Jesse rolled his eyes, “Please, you haven’t noticed that she’s completely stunning?” He got to working on preparing two new drinks after he noticed both glasses before him sat empty. When he heard no response, he looked back up, “Are you serious?”

Rachel stared at him; she wouldn’t tell him that she found Quinn distinctly beautiful. Almost like the ghost of Grace Kelly; Quinn was society’s version of perfection. Rachel would, of course, vehemently deny that she had noticed.

“Of course she’s beautiful, but she’s just a friend.”

Jesse smirked, placing the drinks on the bar when he noticed the familiar blonde walk back toward them, “I wonder how long she agonised over what to wear today.”

Quinn arrived before Rachel could respond, “Sorry, am I interrupting?”

Jesse smiled, “Of course not, Rachel was just telling me how beautiful you looked today.” He walked away before Rachel could launch her glass at him.

“Oh,” She heard as Quinn sat down beside her, voice soft, almost shy, “You said that?”

Eyes wide, mouth agape, Rachel struggled for any form of reply before settling on, “Of course, I mean, you are beautiful. I might be a lost cause with singing, but i’m certainly not blind.”

Quinn smiled softly, “I would hardly call you a lost cause, Rachel.”

That intrigued the singer, “Then what would you call me?”

Quinn hummed softly and took a long pull of her drink before responding, “Maybe a singer that needs to find something to be passionate about?”

“I’m passionate about my work.”

“I’m not denying that, not at all, maybe you’re just looking for the solution to your problem in the wrong place.” When Rachel seemed stumped, Quinn continued, “Okay, let me put it this way. When you’re not working, what do you do?”

That was a loaded question. What did she do in her spare time that wasn’t singing? Sometimes she went shopping with Tina, sometimes she saw a show, uhm…

“From the look on your face, I’ll take it you don’t have many hobbies.” Quinn chuckled, eyes a little glassy. Her second drink was already finished, and Rachel had barely touched hers. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

Rachel snorted into her glass, oh if only she knew, “No, I don’t.”

Quinn raised a hand and called Jesse over, first requesting a drink, then, shockingly, “Excuse me for asking, but do you have a girlfriend?”

Rachel stared into her drink; oh god no, what was she doing?

Jesse smirked, “I don’t think my boyfriend would appreciate that.”

They were both laughing, and after a new drink had been placed down for Quinn, Rachel looked up, “That was horrifying.”

A slight smirk from the tipsy blonde, “I wasn’t trying to set you up, Rachel.”

She blew out a breath and polished off her drink, her second, she was done. “I shouldn’t drink anymore. I’m due at the theatre in,” she glanced up at the clock and balked, “Thirty minutes. Where did two hours go?”

Quinn was smiling openly at her, “Maybe you were having  _ fun.” _

Rachel rolled her eyes and pulled her purse free from her handbag, “Fun?  _ Me _ ? Please, Quinn, show me some respect.”

Quinn giggled as Jesse took Rachel’s credit card with a gracious swoop. “It’s a shame he’s gay, you’d make a great couple; he’s just as dramatic as you.”

Jesse returned, handing Rachel her card back with an overly dramatic bow, “I hope to see you both again.”

With a roll of her eyes, Rachel pulled a laughing Quinn from her stool and pushed her toward the elevator. “Bye Jesse!”

Together in the elevator, Quinn composed herself, “I’ll admit, I was apprehensive about us meeting. I was sure you were going to try and sing something, but this was fun.”

Rachel glanced at her, “I promised, didn’t I?” 

The elevator arrived at the bottom floor, and together they left the building. The early evening heat was almost stifling as they left the protection of air conditioning. “Well, seeing as though I fulfilled my promise, could I sing a song next time?”

Quinn’s eyebrow flicked up, “Next time?”

Oh, no, not that…

“I, uhm, I meant when I see you next.” She stopped, “I mean, when I have a point to prove next.” She slammed her hands on her hips, “I will find whatever I’m missing, Quinn Fabray, and you’ll be the first one to see it.”

Quinn smirked, “Mhm, if you say so.” She raised her hand to the road to hail a cab, “Just please, not at work.”

With a promise that she would never ever try to sing to Quinn at work, the blonde agreed. As she watched Quinn he carried away in a stark yellow cab, she couldn’t help but look forward to seeing her again.

Work had been incredibly hectic and she found now down time to try and figure out the next step in the ever lovingly named plan. GQFTRSIWMSTRTD was promptly halted whilst several last minute rewrites were put into the show. It irked Rachel to end; having to partially relearn scenes that she already had down pat. The director and writers weren’t exactly ecstatic with the critic reviews, and they had wanted to make sure that everything was perfect for opening night. 

For half a second, she thought it may have been her fault; after all, she had been focusing on something that was steadily gaining more importance than her day job. It was hard to admit, but she was spending more time researching and learning new songs than perfecting the songs in Waitress.

The rewrites and quick rehearsals happened over the span on a week, and she practically lived at the theatre in that time. She rarely went home, and if it wasn’t for Tina, she was sure she would have lost her composure and done a perfected diva storm out. Of course, re-writes and changes were common between previews and opening night. 

The worst she had heard about was the short running Love Never Dies, sequel to the ever loved Phantom of the Opera; words had been changed, lines switched or outright changed. It seemed to be the shows downfall, as only ever opening on London’s West End, and after four days since opening night, it had shut down temporarily for significant rewrites. It eventually failed completely, even after discounted tickets. There had been a planned Broadway production, that Rachel vehemently refused to go to, after all, it was nothing compared Phantom, but even that was scrapped.

Was Waitress going the same way?

Panic set in, and she threw herself back into her work. Hours upon hours she spent with the artistic director, making sure that everything was perfect. Her peers saw her as completely overbearing, but this was her livelihood; if she didn’t make this work, perhaps she could kiss goodbye to the glittering lights of Broadway.

On one extremely rare bout of downtime, about an hour in the past five days, she caught up with missed calls from her fathers and emails that had gone untouched for too long. One of the newest happened to be from Quinn, dated two days ago.

**From: Quinn Fabray (** [ **q.fabray@nytimes.com** ](mailto:q.fabray@nytimes.com) **)**

**To: Rachel Berry (** [ **rachelberry93@outlook.com** ](mailto:rachelberry93@outlook.com) **)**

**Subject: Waitress**

**_I haven’t heard from you in a while, and after barely any digging I found out the reason why. I heard that Waitress is going through a little bit of difficulty and you’re probably going completely insane, but don’t worry, this happens more often than you think. Re-writes aren’t rare, so don’t get in your own head. You’re close._ **

**_Quinn Fabray_ **

**_Arts & Theatre_ **

**_The New York Times_ **

Reading Quinn’s email seemed to calm her down some, which shocked her to no end. Everyone on the cast, crew included, had sworn that the show would be fine; that they would get through such a troubling time, and it had done nothing to calm her shaken nerves.

A few sentences though, helped immensely.

Rachel re-read the email several times, her eyes sticking on ‘you’re close’. What did that mean? That the rewrites were almost complete? That she was getting close to what Quinn wanted to see from her? 

She still had no idea what she was looking for, and it killed her inside. All her life, she had thrown herself into every singing class, every dancing and acting class; she thought she had perfected everything. She lived and breathed the stage, those bright lights that she had ached for ever since she was a child. Luckily, she had gotten there, but knowing she was missing something, something that even Quinn couldn’t quite describe set her on edge.

“Rach?” She looked up from her phone, Tina stood before her, looking as exhausted as they both felt, “I think they’re finally done.”

All Rachel could do was let out a deep sigh; was it enough to actually save the show? Had being locked in here for a week worked? She had grown bored of staring at the same sets, the same people, hearing the same music and ‘no it’s still not right’. Could she finally go home?

Looking off stage, toward the seats, she saw all the cast heading toward the exit, the creative director, set designers and choreographers all packing up their things. They were actually done. 

“Are you coming? I’ll call a cab for you.”

Now she was free to leave, why was she finding it so hard not to race out just like her cast mates had? She sat glued to the floor, phone gripped in her hands, staring up at her friend. 

She couldn’t move.

“I’ll leave in a little while, I just need to grab some things.” Tina nodded and pressed a quick kiss to Rachel’s cheek, “Get some rest, T, you need it.”

Her assistant, her friend, smiled, “So do you, you know.” She shouldered her bag with a soft sigh, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Rach.”

She watched Tina leave with a soft smile on her lips; Tina honestly wasn’t needed at the theatre during the rewrites, but she had stayed, because Rachel needed her. It was true friendship, and throughout all the drama, and all the sweat and tears, Tina had stayed by her side. “Thanks, Tina.”

She stood to her feet and stretched out her aching muscles. It felt as if she had run a marathon; her whole body ached and throbbed, muscles hurt that she wasn’t even aware she had. Alone in the theatre, she realized how quiet it truly was; how lonely it was. Quinn’s words came to her; what exactly did she do when she wasn’t working?

Nothing, it seemed. She had no reason to rush home to her empty apartment, to her empty bed. There was no one there to ask how her day had been, how she was holding up, if she wanted to just talk and be heard.

Her existence was a lonely one, and it killed her. All she had was the stage and those lights she so desperately seeked - and for what? Sure, she had a fulfilling career but that’s all she had. There was nothing to talk to her father’s about when they called, only the same stories from the production, which cast member she wasn’t getting on with that week. They had stopped asking about a significant other; they seemed to know it wasn’t going to happen, and so did she.

The swirling emotions were stating to make her feel sick; she was getting too far into a pit that she most certainly didn’t want to jump into. It was time for the remedy, and with plugging her phone into the musical system backstage, she found what she needed.

A song would be perfect; just something to get it all out and make her feel better. It had worked several times over the years, when she had spiralled into despair, it would work again.

She found a favorite, a song from a musical that was only on a few theatres down and hit play before moving out onto the stage. The gentle piano melody filled the air, filling her with the calm that she needed. 

Standing centre stage, she looked out toward the darkened seats; she couldn’t see past the first few rows, but she appreciated that. She didn’t need to prove anything; her singing prowess or anything else. This was just for her.

_ I can't be what you expect of me, but I'm trying every day with all I do and do not say. / Here on the edge of the abyss, knowing everything in my whole life has led to this. / And so I pull inside myself, close the walls, put up my guard. / I practice every single day for this, so why is it so hard? / 'Cause I can't show you I'm not as cold as I seem. / There are things you cannot know, and it's dangerous to dream. _

Her voice was quiet and tranquil, and she felt the calm rush through her. Even after all this time, singing was her cure all.

_ I know I'll never see that sunny day. / When this trial is finally through, and it could just be me and you. / I can't dwell on what we've lost and how secrecy and silence comes at such a cost. / I wish I could tell the truth, show you who's behind the door. / I wish you knew what all this pantomime and pageantry was for. / I have to be so cautious and you're so extreme. / We're different, you and I, and it's dangerous to dream.  _

She opened her eyes and looked up to where the spotlight should have been shining on her, voice growing louder and prouder.

_ It's dangerous to wish I could make choices of my own, dangerous to even have that thought. / I'm dangerous just standing here for everyone to see. / If I let go of rules, who knows how dangerous I'd be? _

A gasp of breath and she stumbled back slightly; it had been a long time since she had sung like this. It was for her and only her; she needed to know that after all these years, that she still had the love of the theatre and the love of singing. It was there, she felt it, deep in her heart; it threatened to burst she was feeling so much, but she just smiled, a small tear falling free down her cheek.

Was this what Quinn was talking about? That ‘thing’ she was missing? It was there, she could feel it deep down in chest, thumping away. Her passion.

_ I can't believe I'm standing here, did I really make it through? / Now what do I do? / I can't stop smiling, how strange. / Does this mean that things are different? Could they really change? / And could I open up that door, and finally see you face to face? / I guess a queen can change the rules, but not the reasons they're in place. _

The music grew quiet and softly, she concluded her piece, feeling as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

_ I can't be what you expect of me, and I'm not what I seem. / But I would love to know you. / Is it dangerous to dream? _

The music promptly ended and she let out a rush of breath; her cure all still worked, after all these years. All the pressure she had been carrying; trying to make the show work, trying to please Quinn Fabray, had been released in one song. She felt better, much better.

Still, she wasn’t looking forward to going home to an empty apartment, but regardless, she moved around the back of the stage to pick up her phone, noticing a single notification. She opened it.

**From: Quinn Fabray (** [ **q.fabray@nytimes.com** ](mailto:q.fabray@nytimes.com)

**To: Rachel Berry (** [ **rachelberry93@outlook.com** ](mailto:rachelberry93@outlook.com)

**Subject: Another impromptu performance?**

**_You’re much better when you’re only singing for yourself._ **

**_Quinn Fabray_ **

**_Arts & Theatre_ **

**_The New York Times_ **

Rachel raced to the stage, looking out into the seats, trying to find a familiar blonde, but she saw nothing. There was just darkness, and a foreboding quiet, she looked back down to her phone to type.

**From: Rachel Berry (** [ **rachelberry93@outlook.com** ](mailto:rachelberry93@outlook.com) **)**

**To: Quinn Fabray (** [ **q.fabray@nytimes.com** ](mailto:q.fabray@nytimes.com) **)**

**Subject: Re: Another impromptu performance?**

**_Where are you?_ **

It wasn’t until she had gotten home, to her achingly empty apartment, and laid in bed, drifting between dream and deep sleep that she got a response. She was quick to wake and promptly opened the email.

**From: Quinn Fabray (** [ **q.fabray@nytimes.com** ](mailto:q.fabray@nytimes.com)

**To: Rachel Berry (** [ **rachelberry93@outlook.com** ](mailto:rachelberry93@outlook.com)

**Subject: Re: Re: Another impromptu performance?**

**_I was on my way to a review down the road when I saw the cast leave. I didn’t see you so I went in to see if you were okay. You’re getting closer, Rachel, more than you know. Sleep well._ **

**_Quinn Fabray_ **

**_Arts & Theatre_ **

**_The New York Times_ **

For some strange reason that she couldn’t quite determine in her hazy sleep filled mind, she fell back to sleep with a smile on her face, feeling significantly better.

\---

Waitress opened the next day, and with renewed vigour, Rachel attacked the new script and choreography. It may have just been her, perhaps she was reading too much into the situation like she always did, but the applause seemed to be louder, the cheers rambunctious. 

At curtain call, the crowd stood and cheered, and Rachel was sure she felt her heart burst with pride and joy. This is what it was; this was just like preview night, the gratitude for such hard work, a thank you for sending the crowd through a story that they enjoyed. 

The cast and crew laughed and cheered backstage, a cacophony of cheers and hip hip hoorays; Rachel took a step back, beside Tina, who offered her a bottle of water, and watched her friends, her  _ family,  _ enjoy their celebrations.

“Apparently there were new critics in the audience tonight.” Tina comments, almost offhandedly. 

“Oh?”

Tina nods, “I don’t know the details, but apparently,” She pauses and makes sure she’s watching Rachel’s reaction as she says it; just to make sure what she was thinking was right. “The New York Times was back.” 

She watched the mixture of emotion that swirled over Rachel’s face before it was slammed down, her stage face returning with a simple, “Oh, good.” 

Tina Cohen-Chang was not an idiot. Sure, she had spent most of her teenagedom pretending to have a lisp because she wanted to somehow stand out against her peers - it had only made the bullying worse, much to her dismay - but she was intelligent, articulate and could read signals like the back of her hand, especially those from Rachel Berry.

The singer had become more and more dependent on her phone over the past few weeks; always looking for an email, skimming through the Times Online to read a certain critics reviews. The way she had come to the theatre grinning from ear to ear after her drink ‘not’ date with Quinn Fabray.

Tina loathed to admit it, but she had managed to slip back into the persona of Agent Chang-A-Lang to do a little digging on the critic that had somehow enraptured her dear friend; just to make sure that she wasn’t a lunatic or anything, the regular stuff. 

Quinn Fabray was twenty-six, a journalist and critic for the theatre department at The New York Times, graduated top of her class in journalism at NYU, lived alone and didn’t seem to have a boyfriend, or girlfriend for that matter. She wouldn’t discriminate. 

Everything about Quinn checked out, but she was still hesitant to tell Rachel that she  _ knew  _ the real deal. The plan that Rachel had so perfectly concocted to prove Quinn wrong was slowly beginning to slip away, and something else was emerging from the cracks, and she was worried her friend would just end up getting hurt.

Rachel Berry had a few relationships in her past, and most of them had ended terribly. Most of Rachel’s partners, both men and women, had been unable to deal with how high maintenance she was; getting up at exactly six am every morning to work out, shower and breakfast promptly at twenty past seven, then a full day, until she could finally make it back home to only talk about her day, completely forgetting to ask about her significant other. 

It had happened over and over again, and Rachel deigned to notice until it was too late. She always said it was because she was so busy, but Tina knew that it was just because she was bored in a stale relationship; she wanted something special, something that look the wind out of her, something that made her see something that wasn’t just flashing lights.

“Had an email from Quinn today?” She asked, almost as if she was asking for the time, taking a sip from the water bottle that Rachel offered back to her. 

Rachel shrugged, refusing to look at her, “Just this morning, to say good luck.”

She already knew that; she’d seen the giant grin on Rachel’s face in the cab that morning, but had kept quiet about it. 

“So...Quinn Fabray?”

With a sigh, Rachel turned to her then, close, almost too close and Tina held her breath when Rachel looked right up at her with unbelievably dark eyes, “What about her?”

“W-well, she’s...interesting?” Rachel’s eyes narrowed and hummed in response. “I mean, you two seem to be getting close.”

“She’s a good friend and I find her advice invaluable.” It was said so flat that Tina almost thought Siri had triggered in her pocket and responded instead. “What’s your point, T?”

This was just plain terrifying now, “Nothing, just making an observation.”

Slowly, Rachel smiled, wide and bright, “Come on, lets go celebrate.”

In the hustle of loud cheers and hugs from cast and crew alike, Tina stood, wide eyed; what the hell was going on?

\---

Rachel apprehensively bought a copy of the Times the next morning. Her fingers ached to open to the theatre section, but she found herself unable. Instead, she clamped the paper to her chest and held on for dear life. 

Quinn had said nothing about doing a second review, the  _ real  _ review, but something told her that Quinn would be the one to pen it. She had first seen the previews, it would only make sure that she was there for the opening night too. 

Had she gotten better? Had she found what she was looking for? Had that elusive ‘thing’ that Quinn was looking for finally arrived? Rachel felt no different, honestly, and no matter how hard she tried to figure out what it could have been that changed, she came up empty ended.

She wasn’t due at the theatre today, a blessed day off after such hard work over the past month, and made her way back into the sanctuary of her apartment to muster up the courage to read the review.

There were no emails, or calls or texts on her phone. There was nothing from Tina or the director or her cast mates; had they even read the review yet? Was she the first?

With a sigh, she flopped down onto her couch with an ungodly thump , newspaper still crushed to her chest. She could do this. She was Rachel freaking Berry and a few words wouldn’t get to her this time. She knew that Quinn was only trying to help, and not hinder, with her review; any critique would simply be taken as that, and not the attack she had first perceived.

She laid the newspaper out before her on the coffee table and slowly flipped to the section she needed, and with a sigh, she glanced down at the pages. Frozen, Anastasia...Waitress. Her eyes clamped shut of their own accord, and she cursed her nerves. She could do this. She could do this. She could do this.

Her eyes flicked open and landed on the review, eyes skimming. Due to re-writes, blah blah blah, better and less stunted dialogue, better choreography, still a one dimensional villain (ouch for Derek), and… her solo.

_ Whilst the rewrites seem to have been a success for the show, everything seemed to stand on the shoulders of Rachel Berry, who sang the title song of the show. Miss Berry seems to have taken this reviewers words to heart, and I felt a shift in the progression of the song. I was entrapped to Miss Berry’s words, and this reviewer would be amiss, if I didn’t offer a well done. However, _

Her heart began to crumble; oh no.

_ There is something still missing. However, with all the hard word Miss Berry has put into the show, I can only assume that one day, she will find it. 4/5. _

Rachel slumped back, tipped her head back against the couch and sighed; she still wasn’t there.

\---

Quinn’s fingers tapped haphazardly on her keyboard, not really paying attention to what she was doing. Her mind was a mess, and she could barely concentrate on what she was suppose to be doing. Her review had been sent in, printed, and sent out. Her email box was still achingly empty, and even with the manic refreshing she was doing, still nothing came.

Waitress, and Rachel Berry, would be the end of her. She had been a theatre reviewer for almost two years, and to this day, nothing had affected her as much as Rachel Berry did. Something about that tiny ball of energy just seemed to entrap her, and even if she did try to force herself away, she found herself not wanting to.

Rachel had crossed a line with the whole Burn number in her office, and her colleagues still had yet to shut up about it, but it smarted less. She had agreed to the drink, simply because she wanted to see what Rachel was like when she wasn’t actually singing, and she liked what she saw.

The singer was both down to earth and high strung, all at once, and Quinn found her both endearing and annoying. It was such a polar opposite in emotions, and she could hardly put any sense into it. Rachel Berry was an enigma - and interesting one at that - and she wanted to know more.

Quinn knew the telltale signs of attraction - she wasn’t a complete moron - and she knew she found Rachel attractive; especially at the bar, where she had just stared forward, unable to actually look at the woman until she actually had a drink down her throat. The attraction was there, and when she found out that Rachel had actually called her  _ beautiful _ , well… that just sealed it.

Rachel was a beautiful woman, perhaps a little insane, but she could learn to like that too. 

She sighed.

“If I hear you sigh one more time, I will literally murder you.”

She glanced to her left, barely, and with a deep inhale, she dramatically sighed once more. She laughed when a stress ball bounced cleanly off her forehead with a quiet slap. She rubbed the spot on her forehead and turned to face her neighbour. He glanced back at her with mirth sparkling in his brown eyes and she couldn’t help but share his infectious grin.

“Hit me again Max, and I’ll sigh again.”

He chuckled softly and looked back to his laptop, “I have another stress ball,” His head dipped to the side softly, “Or maybe a stapler or two.”

Max Thorpe, her desk neighbour and friend, was a complete ass. She launched his stress ball back at him, bouncing cleanly off his bicep. He looked down at his arm, mouth open in mock shock, “That could have killed me.”

Quinn chuckled, and when he gripped his arm tightly, she rolled her eyes playfully, “Oh my God, I think it’s broken. I need an ambulance.”

“Get a grip.”

Max dropped his hand with a grin, “So, what are you being all melancholy over there for? They run out of bleach at the store?”

Hazel eyes narrowed, “I’m a natural blonde.”

“Yeah, whatever,” He swirled in his chair to turn to her, crossing his arms over his chest, “Come on, spill it.”

Even though she did want to tell Max everything, desperately, she knew that she was the reason for water cooler rumours at the moment, and even though she knew that Max could keep a secret, others tended to eavesdrop. Only the other day, she heard that Finn Hudson, who worked the sports section on a  _ completely different floor _ , had been cheating on his girlfriend.

News spread like wildfire, and she was hesitant to be the next victim; especially after the Burn incident. 

“It honestly doesn’t matter.” 

He noticed the uncomfortable tone and pointed to his laptop, and when she looked back at him confused, he sighed and turned to start typing. Several moments later, her inbox dinged quietly. One new message; Max.

**From: Max Thorpe (** [ **m.thorpe@nytimes.com** ](mailto:m.thorpe@nytimes.com) **)**

**To: Quinn Fabray (** [ **q.fabray@nytimes.com** ](mailto:q.fabray@nytimes.com) **)**

**Subject: I’m nosy.**

**_Pretty sure you don’t wanna talk because everyone in this room is a nosy bastard, so you can just type it instead. Tell meeeeeeeeeeeeee._ **

She side eyed him; really? He was such a child sometimes.

**From: Quinn Fabray (** [ **q.fabray@nytimes.com** ](mailto:q.fabray@nytimes.com) **)**

**To: Max Thorpe (** [ **m.thorpe@nytimes.com** ](mailto:m.thorpe@nytimes.com) **)**

**Subject: Re: I’m nosy.**

**_You know that show I’ve been reviewing? That girl that came in here and sang to me in front of everyone?_ **

She sent it with a sigh and glanced at her friend, who quickly read the email with a incomprehensible expression, and began typing. Was she actually going to tell him? He would be the first. She always played her cards close to her chest, she always had; be it her upbringing, or just how she was, she was secretive and liked to keep it that way.

**From: Max Thorpe (** [ **m.thorpe@nytimes.com** ](mailto:m.thorpe@nytimes.com) **)**

**To: Quinn Fabray (** [ **q.fabray@nytimes.com** ](mailto:q.fabray@nytimes.com) **)**

**Subject: Re: Re: I’m nosy.**

**_That weird tiny chick that pretty much freaked everyone out when she started singing in your face, who could forget? What about her?_ **

Max noticed her apprehension when it came time for her to reply, and he frowned; he knew what Quinn was trying to hide, knew who she really was, and through their time working together, and the odd drink here and there, he had hoped they had bonded. He gave her a few minutes, to see if she could gather herself, her fingers frozen over the keyboard, and when it seemed that she wouldn’t be able to reply, he turned back to his computer.

**From: Max Thorpe (** [ **m.thorpe@nytimes.com** ](mailto:m.thorpe@nytimes.com) **)**

**To: Quinn Fabray (** [ **q.fabray@nytimes.com** ](mailto:q.fabray@nytimes.com) **)**

**Subject: Don’t worry.**

**_I already know, Quinn, and regardless of what you think I may think and feel, I couldn’t give two shits. You are you, and that’s all that matters to me._ **

Together, they looked at one another, and with unshed tears in her eyes, Quinn smiled softly and whispered ever so softly, “Thank you.”

He waved his hand, it was nothing, truly it wasn’t. Quinn was his friend, and even if she did dig being with girls, it just gave them more to bond over. He’d be the best wingman there was, even if Quinn asked for it to not, although it seemed she already had her heart set on that tiny whirlwind that entered their office a few weeks ago. They didn’t need to talk anymore, not until he dragged her emotional ass to a bar to drown her feelings.

He raised his hand, curled into a fist, and stretched it out across the distance toward her, and smiled when she returned his fistbump.

\---

“So, like,” Quinn cringed when Max took a long gulp of his beer and belched spectacularly; she had lost count at how many drinks he had drunk, “Are you in love?”

Quinn coughed around her drink, and pulled back, “God no, I barely know her.”

Max nodded and leaned back in the booth, stretching his arm out to a passing waitress to signal another round, and from what Quinn could decipher, the word nachos. The bar was busy, too busy for her, but the light buzz from the alcohol numbed her nerves. She would never speak about her persuasion toward her own gender, but in a loud bar, slightly buzzed, and a bouncing Max before her, seemed to throw those apprehensions out of the window.

“So what are you worried about? Is that why she sung that song? Cos you upset her or something?” He took a long sip of his beer, eyes darting around the bar while Quinn tried to think of something to say.

“Well, no, not really.” He looked back to her, she almost looked defeated, “It’s so stupid, it was just a stupid review for the show and she took it as a personal attack or something, like I would,” She scoffed and took a long pull of her beer, “I mean, I only was offering genuine critique, cos I’m a damn critic, and she took it completely out of context and started following me around, singing at me, to try and prove a point.”

Max laughed heartily, “Oh, you chose the wrong girl to piss off.” 

Quinn nodded, eyes wide, “But seriously, I didn’t mean anything bad by it. She’s a really good singer, really. I just wasn’t expecting her to follow me around, sing at me with every given chance…” She drifted off and sighed, “I promised myself I wouldn’t let it effect me, especially after the first time she sang to me, but I’m an idiot and let it happen.”

Max’s eyes lit up as new drinks were deposited on the table, along with one of the biggest plates of nachos that Quinn had ever laid eyes on. She knew everything was bigger in New York, but this big? She thanked the waitress, as Max seemed too preoccupied by smothering the plate in hot sauce.

“Well,” He mumbled around a mouthful, “Have you told her that you like her?”

That thought terrified her, and it always had, regardless of if it was Rachel or not. She had messed around in college, of course, everyone does, but to actually tell a girl that she liked her? Hell no; the risk was too high and what if it wasn’t returned? She was repressed as hell, she knew that, thanks to her parents, but she wasn’t a masochist. Her mother had always told her to protect her heart, and its the only thing she did that her parents taught her.

“I-,” She stopped and shook her head, “No, there’s too much on the line.”

Max swallowed a few more mouthfuls, rolling the crumbled nachos and guacamole in his mouth as he thought about his reply, “It’s obvious this is getting to you, Q, maybe you should just tell her. If she doesn’t like you, fair enough, you move on, but anything is better than sitting around like a wounded puppy.” He pointed to her face when she looked at him, “Like that, that look right there. It’s depressing, dude, you need to calm down.”

Quinn sighed softly and returned her attention back to her drink, “Rachel is very forward, I’m sure if she felt something, anything, she would have told me by now.”

“You can’t expect her to make the first move all the time, Quinn. I mean, she already called you beautiful, right? You don’t just say that outright. Sure, you’re hot, like, super mega duper hot,” He paused and Quinn frowned at him, “Just, ugh, I’ve drank too much,” He belched again, “But what I mean is, beautiful is a strong word. You don’t just throw that word out there. You throw hot and sexy out there.”

She was thankful for her next drink, after she had promptly downed the remainder of her beer. She wanted to get completely blitzed tonight, and she wasn’t even the quarter of the way there yet. Max looked like he was going to collapse face first into his plate, and she knew he wouldn’t be able to last much longer, regardless of the food soaking up the booze.

“You look like you’re going to throw up.”

“I might.”

“Bathroom?”

“Bathroom.” He shot up out of the booth and almost tripped over several people on his mission toward the bathroom, and when he made it safely instead, Quinn chuckled softly and slumped back in the booth. She had made it her mission tonight to not look at her phone, which had been simple when Max had been around, but now she found the tips of her fingers itching to reach into the pocket of her leather jacket.

She had felt it buzz hours ago, but Max had dragged her to the nearest bar before she could even reach for it. It was probably just work, she assumed, but now she wasn’t quite so sure. She fought with herself for several moments before a small growl ripped from her throat and she dived into her pocket to grip her phone.

She was right.

**From: Rachel Berry (** [ **rachelberry93@outlook.com** ](mailto:rachelberry93@outlook.com) **)**

**To: Quinn Fabray (** [ **q.fabray@nytimes.com** ](mailto:q.fabray@nytimes.com) **)**

**Subject: Your recent review**

**_Quinn,_ **

**_I must say thank you for your recent review regarding Waitress. I was glad you found the rewrites to your liking, and although you still found Derek’s character one dimensional (which, between the two of us, I completely agree with) I was glad that you found it spectacular enough to boost the rating from a three to a four out of five._ **

**_I wish to speak about the piece on my solo, perhaps in person? Anytime at your earliest convenience is fine with me, after all, you said yourself, I have no hobbies! But I think I have found a hobby that I can truly enjoy and I would like for you to be there in my first foray._ **

**_Sincerely,_ **

**_Rachel Berry._ **

**_Broadway Star_ **

**_(See, I have one like you now!)_ **

Quinn smiled, her nerves vanquished; Rachel didn’t seem annoyed by her review, and whilst it was gleaming compared to her first, she still did let Rachel know that she wasn’t quite there yet. A hobby though? Her interest was peaked as she returned the email, fingers failing slightly as the buzz from the alcohol took hold.

**From: Quinn Fabray (** [ **q.fabray@nytimes.com** ](mailto:q.fabray@nytimes.com) **)**

**To: Rachel Berry (** [ **rachelberry93@outlook.com** ](mailto:rachelberry93@outlook.com) **)**

**Subject: Re: Your recent review**

**_Rachel, I’m glad you were happy with the review. I hope it didn’t upset you as much, as the previous one did._ **

She grumbled and promptly deleted it.

**_Rachel, I’m glad you were happy with my review. The rewrites were much better than previous and I hope that showed in my review. As for your hobby, I’m intrigued and I’d be happy to help you go into this._ **

Max returned, normally tanned face almost ashen and Quinn frowned, “Max?”

“I don’t feel too good,” He gripped his stomach, “If it isn’t coming out of my mouth it’s coming out the other end,” Quinn grimaced, “So I’m just gonna go,” He pulled out some money from his back pocket and practically threw it onto the table, “I gotta go,” He repeated with some urgency and as he ran to leave, he shouted a quick goodbye over his shoulder.

Quinn chuckled softly, Max had never been able to handle his alcohol, and did often indulge more than he should have. She made a mental note to be on his case tomorrow morning, if he actually managed to drag his sorry ass into work.

Then, she realized she was actually alone, and the claustrophobia set back in, regardless of the soft buzz from the booze. She glanced back down at her phone and noted the time, it was past ten. Would it be…? Could she…?

She returned back to her phone.

**_I’m still in the city right now, actually. My friend and I were having a few drinks but he had to leave (lightweight) so if you’re free, I am._ **

**_Quinn Fabray_ **

**_Arts & Theatre_ **

**_The New York Times_ **

**_(Mine is better)_ **

Shockingly, she only had to wait a few minutes for a reply.

**From: Rachel Berry (** [ **rachelberry93@outlook.com** ](mailto:rachelberry93@outlook.com)

**To: Quinn Fabray (** [ **q.fabray@nytimes.com** ](mailto:q.fabray@nytimes.com) **)**

**Subject: Re: Re: Your recent review**

**_You’re on. Follow the link I’ve sent to you and meet me there in an hour._ **

**_Rachel Berry_ **

**_Broadway Star_ **

**_(Don’t be childish, Quinn)_ **

With a smirk, she opened the link and laughed, out loud, and didn’t care if people were looking at her. Only Rachel Berry would choose karaoke as a hobby.

\---

She didn’t have to travel far, and after downing two more drinks for dutch courage, she had hailed a cab and was now stood in front of the 9th Avenue Saloon. She had heard about it at work, from the Entertainment and Nightlife guys, that it was a drag heavy bar. Drag Queens flounced around the bar, goading and laughing with anyone that walked through its doors. It was a popular hole in the wall, and opened early, and shut late; popular amongst the queer population of New York City.

Quinn should have felt at home, but apprehension sat back in. She had been in gay bars before, but only in a large group of college friends, and thankfully, allowed herself to be swallowed into the crowd as not to attract attention. She  _ was  _ gay, but not out and proud, and she didn’t think she ever would be. 

It was a shame, however; she loved the nightlife, the style and personalities that embedded themselves into the LGBTQ community, she just wished she had the backbone to be proud that was part of it too, in some part, however small.

She thought about waiting for Rachel to arrive, she was almost twenty minutes early, but the call of alcohol was too much to bare. She needed something to calm her nerves. She hesitantly glanced through the windows to get a look inside.

At first, she was expecting a dive bar, but it was actually quite modern, with red twinkling lights hanging over the bar, ushering the bartenders behind the bar in a deep maroon hue. They were laughing with the patrons that sat at the bar, pouring drinks in spectacular motions and Quinn felt her heart skip.

The patrons all looked happy, talking among themselves and with the drag queens that walked through the bar; their wigs and makeup high and dramatic. They looked so at home, and the jovial attitude seemed to seep into Quinn. She wanted to be  _ a part  _ of it.

“Coming in, sugar?” Her head snapped toward the open door; a drag queen leaned against it, cigarette held delicately between two fingers, a smirk on her face. 

“S-sorry sir,” She blanched, “I mean ma’am. I’m sorry I didn’t mean to offend-,”

The drag queen laughed, gigantic pink hair floating back at a loud rumble of a laugh ripped from the queen’s throat, “Oh honey, calm down. You’re so rigid, come on,” She pulled once on a still full cigarette and deposited it into an ashtray box screwed to the wall, “We’ll get you a drink.”

Quinn allowed herself to be enveloped, almost stifled against a fitted office jacket and generous amounts of jewellery that dangled off the queen. She was easily a foot under the drag queen, and almost felt like a small child whilst she was pulled into the bar, “You’ve come on a good night, hon. It’s karaoke night, do you sing?” Quinn pushed the jewellery from her face and spluttered, “Of course you do, beautiful girl like you.” The queen laughed again as she deposited the blonde onto a nearby chair, toward the front of the stage, and an aching distance from the refuge of the alcohol behind the bar.

She was staring at the bar, mouth achingly dry, before she noticed the queen was teasing her blonde hair with her hand, “Your hair is stunning, if only I could get a wig like this.” Quinn glanced up at the pink...thing… on her head. “Oh, come off it honey, you’d kill for this wig too.” The queen swirled on kitten heels, “I’ll get you a drink, on me, what will you have?”

“Anything.” She wanted to say something strong, but the six foot queen was walking away from her, skirt swishing out behind her. Oh God, what was she doing? The alcohol was fading, and she was becoming painfully aware of her environment. The bar wasn’t cramped, nowhere near as much as Sidebar was, but she felt as if everyone was watching her. She slumped into her seat, staring up at the stage. It was small, achingly so, and a lone mic sat front centre, waiting to be used. 

“Here you go, hon.” Her head snapped up and she gently thanked the queen that settled a cocktail in front of her, “Made it myself, as much as the bartenders hate it, but go ahead.” She waved toward the drink, waiting for Quinn to reach out and take it, “Girlie, take the drink.”

Quinn gripped the glass and took a long gulp, eyes still wide, staring up at the tall queen before her, “Wow,” She coughed, feeling the burn rip down her throat, “What the hell is that?”

“My signature drink, girlie. Trade secret.” The queen laughed, that same deep rumble and Quinn couldn’t help but smile, “I thought you’d need something strong, seeing as though you look completely out of your comfort zone.” Quinn began to shake her head, “Hon, us gays aren’t gonna eat you alive.”

“No!” Quinn stopped herself and bit her lip, “It’s...not that, it’s just…” She glanced around, taking in the crowd. Same sex couples dotted the bar, talking amongst one another, soft looks and touches, and Quinn’s heart ached. Would she ever allow herself to have that? “I just… I’m…” 

The queen waited patiently, arching an incredibly thick painted on eyebrow toward Quinn’s drink, silently tell her to take another swig for courage. She watched as the blonde before her almost finished the drink, leaving only a small amount at the bottom of the tall glass.

“I just, I like being here, I’ve just never done it before.”

Not the answer the queen wanted, but she took it regardless. She extended her hand, “I’m Karen from Finance.”

“Quinn.” She paused and frowned, finally noticing the name. “I’m sorry?”

The queen, Karen, chuckled, “My drag name honey, and don’t you forget it.” That explained the office attire Karen was wearing. Quinn took the proffered hand and shook it. Her hands were surprisingly soft, even though she was a man in a wig. “I hope you don’t mind me saying, girlie, but my gayday is going insane right now, please put me out of my misery.”

This was it. It was hard enough to tell Max, to tell herself, and although she knew she would be accepted, in a gay bar of all places, it still made her heart thump painfully in her chest. She finished off the drink and nodded, “Yeah.”

Karen smirked, “Honey, you are the most adorable queer I’ve met in a long time.” She patted Quinn gently on the shoulder, “Good for you.” The blonde felt herself blush and glanced down toward her drink, to try and cover it, “Another drink?”

A simple nod and Karen had gone away again, only to return a few minutes later with said drink, “Here you go, hon. I have to love and leave you now, I’m due on in twenty and I haven’t had nearly enough to drink yet.” 

She was sad to say goodbye, but she caught a familiar flash of brown hair and her heart almost stopped, “Hi! Sorry, traffic is a pain.” Rachel Berry, in all her glory, short shorts that clung deliciously to muscular dancing legs, a tight white tank top, looked up to the queen she was stood beside. “Karen, it’s been too long!”

The two embraced and Quinn sat, staring, hand gripped unbearably tight around her glass. They knew each other? Rachel came to gay bars often?  _ What… _ She brought her drink to her lips and almost glugged the damn thing. Oh God, what was happening?

“Rachel Berry in the flesh, come all the way from Broadway to see little old me?”

Rachel laughed, “Not just you, Karen, but you’re an added bonus.” She turned to Quinn, and the blonde was pretty sure her heart stopped when Rachel smiled softly at her, “It seems you already met, Quinn.”

Karen smirked, almost knowingly, “Oh, we’ve only just met but I think we’re already the best of friends, right Quinn?”

Quinn only nodded, suddenly feeling too hot.

“Gotta go, I’m on soon, I expect you’ll be singing, Rachel?”

Rachel laughed, and it was the only thing Karen needed to hear before she swirled and walked off toward the bar. The singer dropped down in front of her, beaming smile still in place, “Hey, sorry I’m late, I couldn’t get a cab and when I  _ finally  _ did, I was stuck in traffic.”

Quinn shrugged a shoulder, “It’s fine, I was kept...occupied, anyway.” Yeah, she was too warm. She stood and quickly shrugged off her jacket, draping it on the back of her chair. She tried to ignore how Rachel’s eyes shot away, almost as if she was uncomfortable, and she wished she hadn’t taken her jacket off. 

Suddenly, she wanted to leave.

“So, karaoke?” Rachel asked, and Quinn had no idea what the question was, “Are you going to do it too?”

Quinn laughed, almost bitterly, “I haven’t sung since high school, and that was only in glee club.”

Rachel’s eyes widened, and dramatically, her hands clasped to her chest, “You were in glee club? So was I!” She bounced in her seat and Quinn found it difficult not to find it endearing. “Where did you go to school? We may have competed!”

“Oh, we weren’t big enough to compete, it was only a few of us, more like an after school thing.” Rachel seemed disappointed, and to dull the ache in her chest, Quinn returned back to her drink, sipping it slowly to make the rest of it last.

“That’s a shame, I mean, how weird would it be if we had already met back in school and not known it? It could have been fate!”

Quinn said nothing, and promptly finished off her drink without her realizing it. “Uhm, drink?” 

Rachel nodded, “Whatever you’re having is fine, I’m pretty sure it’s one of Karen’s famous concoctions, and it’s always good to do karaoke a little buzzed.” 

\---

Quinn had lost count at how many drinks she had that night, and only with a quick glance of her phone, she realized it was already past one am. The club had gotten busier over the past hours, but with the heavy buzz of alcohol and the hilarious stage moments from the drag queens, Karen included, Quinn found it hard to care. She was actually having fun, and for once, she didn’t feel like much of a stranger anymore.

Rachel was slightly buzzed, almost collapsing off her chair at one point at one of Karen’s jokes, but had been behaving herself. Karaoke was due to open up at any point, thankfully; a full day of work and several dozen drinks had Quinn fading between actually being awake and passed out on the table.

“Oh, I’m up next!” Rachel grinned back toward Quinn, over her shoulder, where she was looking at the stage, “Any preferences?”

Quinn had none, she was slowly slipping away from reality and she honestly couldn’t have cared less. The mood of the bar was infectious as a drag queen Quinn wasn’t familiar with jumped on stage and announced that karaoke was open. Rachel looked positively giddy with excitement and Quinn couldn’t help but grin goofily at her.

“Whatever you wanna do is fine, I’m not a critic tonight, remember?”

Rachel smiled and turned to face her fully, “I know, but still, it’d be nice to know what music you like. I have an impressive repertoire and I’d be happy to share it.” 

They both stared at one another, and Quinn couldn’t honestly come up with any reply. Under the dark light of the bar, and glow of fairy lights, Rachel almost looked seraphic. A glow almost seemed to surround her, and the blonde couldn’t seem to drag her eyes away. 

“Come up, Rachel, you know you wanna!” A thick New York accent broke the staring contest between the two and Rachel grinned up toward the stage before turning back to Quinn, “Buckle up, Fabray, I’m gonna knock your socks off!”

Quinn smirked as Rachel jumped up onto the stage and whispered into the nameless queen’s ear, and after some messing around with a laptop off to the side of the stage, a heavy drum beat filled the bar. She knew the beat, she was sure of it, but couldn’t quite place it.

Rachel grabbed the mic and discarded of the stand, all but throwing it off to the side and out of the way. She stood centre stage, bouncing to the heavy beat, and Quinn couldn’t seem to take her eyes off the diminutive figure that filled the tiny stage.

With the first few lines, Quinn wished she could pray for herself; she knew this damn song.

_ What's the time? / Well it's gotta be close to midnight. / My body's talking to me, It says, “Time for danger.” _

Anything but this song, anything but Rent. Quinn’s body ached to move, but she couldn’t bring herself to. 

_ It says, “I wanna commit a crime, wanna be the ‘cause of a fight, I wanna put on a tight skirt and flirt with a stranger.” _

Rachel commanded her audience, bouncing from one side of the stage to the other. 

_ I've had a knack from way back at breaking the rules once I learn the games. / Get up! Life's too quick, I know someplace sick, where this chick'll dance in the flames. _

The crowd erupted into loud cheers as Rachel sang, voice heedy and filled with something Quinn had never heard before. It set her on edge; she wasn’t prepared and it ached.

_ We don't need any money, I always get in for free. / You can get in too, If you get in with me. _

Quinn gasped as Rachel jumped off the stage, resting her hand on the nearest patron, a woman with a buzzed haircut, and continued to sing, hips swaying from side to side hypnotically.

_ Let's go out tonight. / I have to go out tonight. / You wanna play? Let's run away, we won't be back before it's New Year's Day. / Take me out tonight, meow. _

Quinn swallowed instinctively as Rachel threaded her way through the crowd, stopping from time to time so lean in to certain drinkers and allow them to sing along with her for a spell.

_ When I get a wink from the doorman, do you know how lucky you'll be? / That you're on line with the feline of Avenue B. / Let's go out tonight, I have to go out tonight. / You wanna prowl, be my night owl? / Well take my hand we're gonna howl, out tonight! _

A thankful lul in the music for Quinn, whose heart was pounding out of her chest, which only seemed to quicken as Rachel got closer to her table.

_ In the evening I've got to roam, can't sleep in the city of neon and chrome. / Feels too damn much like home when the Spanish babies cry. / So let's find a bar, so dark we forget who we are. / Where all the scars from the nevers and maybes die. _

The tempo shot back up as Rachel reached her table, almost leaning over it, breasts pressed against the stained wood. Quinn urged herself to look away, but couldn’t. She just  _ couldn’t _ .

_ Let's go out tonight. / I have to go out tonight. / You're sweet, wanna hit the street? / Wanna wail at the moon like a cat in heat? / Just take me out tonight. _

She almost died in her seat when Rachel, covered in a thin sheen of sweat, eyes dark, turned to her and almost fucking  _ moaned. _

_ Please take me, / _ Rachel pushed herself off the table and danced back toward the stage, jumping and hopping at the patrons of the bar shouted and cheered for her as she passed.  _ out tonight. / Don't forsake me, out tonight. / I'll let you make me, out tonight. / Tonight, tonight, tonight. _

Rachel finished, back on stage, centre stage, and laughed at the rambunctious howling and wolf whistles that filled the bar. Her eyes soaked it in, before searching out for Quinn. 

_ Oh god, what am I doing? Why am I here? Is she…? _

Quinn silently panicked in her seat, downing the rest of her drink to alleviate her parched throat. That was too close, she was so close. Her hand ached to reach out and touch Rachel as she leaned across her table and it had taken everything she had not to.

She couldn’t do this, not here, not now. She was barely out of the closet, she couldn’t let people know, enough people knew already.

She bit back the bile in her throat and steeled herself for Rachel’s return.

“Oh my gosh, that was so much fun!” Rachel collapsed, breathlessly, into her seat and polished off her drink for good measure, “What did you think?” She paused, but only briefly as Quinn opened her mouth, “Not in my repertoire, I know, but it’s so good just to push yourself out of your boundaries and experiment, right?”

Quinn’s heart clenched; this was becoming too real, too soon, and although Rachel seemed to tease her to the thought that feelings could be returned, it all came back to music. She wanted to push her boundaries, wanted to experiment. She was stupid to think different.

“I mean, Rent is one of the best musicals out there, ever, and,” She was babbling, “Quinn, it’s so thrilling, maybe I’ll try and audition on the next circuit, do you think-?”

Quinn’s hands shook, clenched in her lap and snapped, “You were sharp.”

Rachel quietened, and her shoulders slumped, “Oh.” 

“Seriously, Rachel? Rent?” Oh God, what was she doing? “You can barely manage a solo in Waitress, how do you think you can really tackle something like Rent? You see yourself as a Maureen, maybe? Give me a break.”

_ Oh god, no.  _

The silence between them was deafening, and much more effective to Quinn’s claustrophobia than the talking around them. She didn’t mean it. She didn’t mean a word. Rachel would be perfect in Rent.

She opened her mouth to apologize, but Rachel was already standing, tears in her eyes, “Why are you being so mean?” 

Quinn’s eyes followed as Rachel walked away, her heart throbbing with pain, and watched as the singer pushed past a giddy Karen who stood by the door, trying to entice people into the bar. Karen looked out, shouting for Rachel, before turning back to her.

With a sigh, Quinn put her head in her hands and cried. What the hell had she done?

\---

It had been weeks. 

She had surrounded herself with work, hoping to blanket herself from the pain she suffered from. If it was this bad for her, how badly did Rachel feel? All she could see what that crumbling look in Rachel’s eyes, the tears that threatened to fall, the way she ran away.

Her inbox was empty that morning when she checked, as usual, work emails didn’t count. She had stared at a blinking counter on her laptop or phone more times than she could count; she tried to pen several emails, but none of them said what she really wanted to say. It was covered up emotions, veiled as an excuse, and she couldn’t bring herself to send them.

Max noticed the change, of course, and tried his hardest to get through to her. Offers of drinks were rebuffed, after all, it was alcohol that had shattered her protective barrier in the first place and set that stupid defense mechanism back into place. She had acted petulantly, annoyed that Rachel was only playing a  _ role _ , and that there were no truth in her words as she sang. Now she was having to deal with the aftermath, of which, there wasn’t really one.

She and Rachel were not together, not dating, not in a relationship. There was nothing to repair except a thinly layered professional relationship masquerading as a friendship. Quinn, in good conscious, could just let it go; after all, the reviews were done, she never needed to see or hear from Rachel again.

Part of her was content with that.

Except she wasn’t, not really.

Her inbox dinged and she shot up in her seat, slumping slightly when she saw it was only Max. He wasn’t in the office, he was out for work, but he often checked in with her throughout the day. Was it that obvious? Did she have the look of a kicked dog? Perhaps. Her colleagues offered her sympathetic smiles as she walked in every day, and there was no way they could have known what really happened, so she just let it be. Let them smile all they want. It didn’t change anything.

**From: Max Thorpe (** [ **m.thorpe@nytimes.com** ](mailto:m.thorpe@nytimes.com) **)**

**To: Quinn Fabray (** [ **q.fabray@nytimes.com** ](mailto:q.fabray@nytimes.com) **)**

**Subject: A solution**

**_I’ve been thinking, dangerous I know, as you would say, but seriously, I think I have a solution to your problem. You need to do something, and fast, because I want my friend back. I’m not being selfish here, well, maybe a little bit, but I really miss the good times we had together. You never come to Sidebar with me anymore and I can’t stand the rest of the idiots in the office enough to go for a drink with them. You’re cool as shit, Fabray, and even though you won’t tell me what happened, I think you really need to apologize, or something. Write her an email and get it out there, you’ll only feel better for it. If it doesn’t work, then at least you tried. I’m here to help you, even if it’s to drown your sorrows or just a shoulder to cry on._ **

**_Good luck._ **

**_(I’m acting like you’re gonna listen to me, even though you won’t, but whatever!)_ **

**_Maxwell Thorpe_ **

**_Arts & Theatre_ **

**_The New York Times_ **

With a heavy huff, she closed the email, choosing not to reply. The longer she left this, the worse it would only make her feel. It had been three weeks and nothing had changed; she only felt worse with each day. 

Max was an amazing friend, and she was lucky to have him, but he had no idea what he was talking about. He didn’t have to deal with parents so deeply entrenched in their religion that they couldn’t see sense, or being kicked out at sixteen because they found out, or the deep sense of dread she held each day, wondering if people knew.

She knew there wasn’t anything wrong with being that way inclined, but it had been drilled into her for so many years, she felt as if there was something wrong with her, specifically. She was raised to be straight, married off to some rich white guy, have children and be a dutiful housewife, just as her mother had.

That wasn’t the plan for her. She loved to write, she wanted to try and make it big, she wanted out of Ohio. She had done it, but at a price. She came to New York, thankfully with a full ride to NYU, but almost penniless, no friends or family. Her existence was a lonely one, but at least she was protected.

**From: Quinn Fabray (** [ **q.fabray@nytimes.com** ](mailto:q.fabray@nytimes.com) **)**

**To: Rachel Berry (** [ **rachelberry93@outlook.com** ](mailto:rachelberry93@outlook.com) **)**

**Subject: N/A**

**_I’m so sorry._ **

She deleted it.

**_I didn’t mean to hurt you so badly._ **

She deleted it.

**_You were fantastic, I’m just a mess._ **

She deleted it.

**_I didn’t mean to snap, I was just scared._ **

She deleted it.

**_You deserve better, Rachel._ **

She deleted it.

**_Rachel, I only snapped because I’m scared, because I’m not in control of how my feelings are starting to spiral because of you. At first, it was just fascination, but now its something more; it may just be a crush, something physical, but I can’t seem to process it right. I’m a jumbled mess, and it would be better if you just forgot about me entirely._ **

**_I’m gay, Rachel, and although I know nothing is wrong with that, the way I was raised makes me believe its something sinful. I try to shake it, but I can’t. You don’t need that in your life. Please, focus on yourself, and your career, and don’t waste anymore time on me._ **

**_I’ll miss your impromptu performances in the street, and embarrassing me at work, but this is for the best._ **

With one last tap, she dropped her head to her desk, and fought back the tears.

She deleted it.

\---

“Please, stop asking if I’m okay,” Rachel sighed softly, pulling her hair up into its customary bun for the show, “I’m fine.” 

It was a lie.

Tina watched her through the mirror, and Rachel knew that Tina knew, but it was a quiet confirmation between the two. Nothing needed to be said, nothing needed to be done; all she needed to do was work.

“I won’t stop asking, but okay.” Tina pushed away from the door frame and closed it softly behind her, “Have you heard anything?” She asked, only when they were safely enshrined in the room, away from the prying ears of crew and cast.

Rachel’s eyes dropped away from her, and toward the makeup that was laid out before her. She settled her hand on a bottle of foundation, and chose not to reply.

“So nothing.” Tina sighed softly, “Maybe it was a mistake?”

The singers hand almost shook as she dotted several patches of foundation across her face, trying to center herself away from the conversation, but Tina wouldn’t give up. She had grown tired of the sad looks, the sighs, the soft touches. 

She almost felt nothing now; she was just tired. Quinn was a good friend, but just as her previous twenty-six years, Quinn Fabray didn’t exist, and she would cope again without her. Her heart clenched in her chest; she knew it was a lie, Quinn Fabray  _ did  _ exist.

The feelings she had for Quinn, were once she couldn’t quite pinpoint. Was it attraction? Was it friendship? Was it competitiveness? She had no idea what it was, and it irked her to no end. Rachel Berry was not one to be indecisive; she always knew what she was feeling, when she was feeling it, and at what time. This was not right.

“It wasn’t a mistake, Tina, please just stop asking.”

“But maybe-,”

“Tina!” Her eyes shot angrily at her friend through the mirror, and her voice softened, suddenly tired, “Just stop, please.”

Tina was done with this; she had dealt with the tearful phone call at almost two am in the morning those few weeks ago, and ever since, she had been on disaster control. Rachel had swung from one mood to the next and it exhausted her. She had tried to make her best friend feel better, in any capacity, but nothing seemed to work, and now she was just throwing in the towel.

She ripped open the door and spat over her shoulder, “You’re just as bad as Quinn.” The door slammed shut and Rachel felt the familiar burn in her eyes once more. She fought to fight it back, but she was just so  _ tired _ .

\-------------------

**From: Tina Cohen-Chang (** [ **tinachangchang@outlook.com** ](mailto:tinachangchang@outlook.com) **)**

**To: Quinn Fabray (** [ **q.fabray@nytimes.com** ](mailto:q.fabray@nytimes.com) **)**

**Subject: Talk.**

**_I don’t care what you’re doing, you need to meet me. Times Square, now._ **

  
  


She hadn’t really anticipated actually following the orders within the email. Truly, she didn’t. She was quite happy sitting at work, finishing off proof reading one of Max’s articles, anticipating a long and tedious tossing and turning ahead of her when she finally got home.

Her time was a commodity, and she wouldn’t allow anything get in the way of her six hours of tossing and turning.

The email was blunt, to the point, and from the thinly veiled aggression that weaved its way through the words, evidently it had something to do with Rachel. 

She had no idea who ‘Tina Chang Chang’ was, but she had every intention of finding out; even though the thought of meeting a stranger skeeved her out. It was Times Square, their intended meeting spot, and would be filled with tourists, even at this late hour.

She took a can of mace, just be on the safe side…

\---

“You.” Quinn muttered, accusingly, as she stared at the tiny asian woman before her. Tina stared back, mouth agape from her cut off accusation as soon as she saw Quinn sidle up to her.

“Huh?”

“You’re the weirdo that’s been following me around for weeks on end. You’re really not very good at following people, or keeping hidden. It’s a little awkward when I walk into work and leave hours later to find you still sitting there.” 

Tina sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose, “I’m going to kill Rachel.” She dropped her hand and shrugged her shoulders, “Look, Rachel told me to do that, I didn’t want anything to do with it.”

“Why?”

“Because, contrary to popular belief, I’m not a psycho like my best friend.”

Quinn smirked softly, “No, I mean, why were you following me?”

“She wanted to know your routine, so she could do that stupid plan.”

Quinn frowned, “Plan?”

Tina balked, completely caught out. Shit, this is not what she had intended at all. Quinn wasn’t supposed to know. Hell, Quinn wasn’t even meant to be here, talking to her. What was she doing? She was going insane. If Rachel found out, her head would be taken off by another flying newspaper review.

“Forget it.” Tina grumbled, “Look. We need to talk about Rachel.” At Quinn’s blatant silence, she grew impatient and continued, “I don’t know what the hell you did, and I don’t really want to know either, but Rachel is my best friend, and I don’t appreciate getting a call in the middle of the night with her balling her eyes out.” Her eyes narrowed, “Or to find out that you’re the one that caused it.”

“It…” Quinn cleared her throat, feeling it tighten, “It wasn’t my intention to make her cry.” God, she made her cry… “I...was just really confused and I lashed out, it’s a defensive mechanism.” 

Tina’s arms crossed over her chest, “Find another one.”

“Excuse me?” Quinn bristled, stepping closer to the young woman, defensive walls already standing to attention.

“Your defense mechanism, it sucks. It hurts you and everyone around you. Find another one.” Her arms dropped at the lost look in Quinn’s eyes, the fury suddenly gone from those hazel eyes, “I won’t pretend to know what’s going on in your head, or between you and Rachel, but what’s happening is toxic to you both and it needs to change. Find a better outlet, because this one isn’t doing you any favours.” She stepped back, “Sort it out, and for the love of god talk to Rachel when you have. I can’t deal with the moping anymore.” 

She’s gone and Quinn is left in the middle of Times Square, surrounded by people, milling around, taking photos, laughing and joking, and she’s never felt so invisible.

\---

Max is the one to mention it, and at first, she bursts out laughing at the sheer absurdity of it. No way in hell. There’s a reason their Glee Club back in high school was only five members strong and their only audience was a janitor who came to clean up the chip crumbs off the auditorium floor.

“No way.”

“It might help, y’know.” He says around his BLT. They’re having lunch together, standing outside a sandwich shop only a few blocks from the Times building. It’s a rushed lunch; both of them have deadlines, but the need for bacon was a must.

“I can’t carry a tune, and even if I could, it's been years.”

“Dude,” Max chuckles around his mouthful, “You’re delusional. I’ve heard you do Karaoke. True, you’re half cut when you do it, but you have a pretty good set of pipes on you. Rachel finds it cathartic, so why don’t you give it a try?”

Quinn glares at him over her sandwich, “If you expect me to sit in front of my mirror and sing into a hairbrush, you have another thing coming.”

They fall into silence and Max has all but demolished his sandwich and his halfway through his bottle of water when he speaks again, “What about lessons? You can work on an old hobby and get all the shit off your chest you’ve been carrying around.”

“I’m not going to sing a song and act like everything is all sunshine and roses, Max. It doesn’t work like that. This isn’t a Broadway musical.”

Max shrugs and tosses his scrunched up sandwich wrapper and empty bottle in the bin, “Just a suggestion.”

\---

It kills her to admit, but Maxwell Thorpe could be onto something.

\---

A week later, and a very empty inbox later, she brings up google and types in voice coaches in New York. She finds one close to work that’s taking pupils and with a sigh, calls the number to apply.

\---

She’s immediately accepted and turns up three days later after cancelling twice. She chickens out outside the doors and ends up just going home. She does it twice, before she finally gathers the courage to walk inside.

It’s only a small studio, a piano in the corner, walls lined with mirrors. It looks like a dance studio if anything else, but she doesn’t complain. Her teacher is sat at the piano when she walks in, a guy in his mid thirties, and stares at her as she slowly lowers her messenger bag to the floor, careful to avoid dropping the precious cargo inside. Her laptop cost her a fortune, and contrary to popular belief, working for the Times didn’t pay incredibly well.

“You’re late.”

Quinn gulps, “S-Sorry.”

“I assumed something would ‘pop up’ again and I’d have to re-schedule.”

“Ah,” Quinn scratches the back of her head gently, “I’m sorry. I haven’t really sung since High School and the prospect of it freaked me out a little bit.”

Her teacher watches her for the longest time, almost sizing her up, before after an achingly long time, he stands and walks toward her. “We’ll start with what you know. Sing something for me.”

The embarrassment burns in her chest, but she does it, regardless, because she’s here for a reason. He says there's a lot of work to be done, but she isn’t a lost cause, and she almost bursts out laughing when he says ‘she’s missing something’.

\---

It takes months of back breaking work and she almost dips a good few times because she really doesn't have the strength to deal with Steven’s attitude at the best of times. He runs her like a work horse and she’s pretty certain she’s ruined her vocal cords after all the runs he makes her do. 

On the third month of vocal lessons, he finally steps back and hands her a bottle of water, which she greedily accepts and drains the contents. It’s the middle of summer and the air con broke almost a month ago. Steven hasn’t got it fixed; he says it builds character.

Steven is an asshole.

“Why are you here?”

The question gives her pause, and she slowly lowers the bottle from her lips in confusion, “To learn to sing?” She smirks, “I know I’m taking a lot of work, Steve, but I’m pretty certain dementia hasn’t set in yet.”

He doesn’t find it funny, “No, I mean, why are you  _ here _ ?”

She’s still confused, “I don’t get what you mean.”

“You’ve told me you haven’t sung since High School. You’re happy working at the Times, you don’t want to pursue any sort of job in music.”

“My work revolves around it.”

Steven is evidently trying to figure her out once again, sizing her up. His eyes lock with hers, “What do you want to get out of this?”

So many things, she wants to say. She wants to be able to stand in front of Rachel Berry and tell her how she feels, how sorry she is, how deplorable a person she truly is. How she is working so hard to be someone completely new for her; someone who isn’t scared to be truthful.

Steven just nods, “I get it.” At Quinn’s sudden frown, he chuckles softly, “I saw it all right there,” He prods her right between the eyes with a straight index finger. “Next week, bring a song you think explains how you feel. Search hard, and don’t come back to me with some pop bob, I’ll kick your ass right back out the door.”

All she can do is nod. What he says is law in this place.

\---

She’s got it. She’s sitting in the audience of Dear Evan Hansen, pen and notepad in hand, eyes wide as Ben Platt stands alone on the stage, singing his heart and soul out to the audience. It’s like they’re not even there, he’s just singing to himself, screaming out all the pain he feels in his heart. It hits her square in the chest and she shudders out a breath she didn’t even know she was holding.

The song has nothing to do with the fact she marks it five out of five the day after and emails the article to her editor. Nothing at all.

\---

“Do you have it?”

She’s on edge; she feels like she’s going to buzz straight out of her sneakers. It’s one of her rare days off and she’s stood here again, in the middle of the singing studio, Steven sat at the piano, his iPhone dock sat on top of it.

All she can do is nod as she places her phone in the dock and flips to the song. His hand on hers to stop her from hitting play, “Take your time.”

She smiles softly and nods, taking one deep breath before hitting play and taking several measured steps back. She squeezes her eyes shut and imagines that stage, that empty blackened stage and opens her mouth.

_ I never meant to make it such a mess, / I never thought that it would go this far, / So I just stand here sorry, / Searching for something to say / Something to say… _

It feels so cathartic, so raw, even this early in the song. That pressure she’s had on her chest since she was a kid is finally beginning to lift a little. 

_ Words fail, words fail. / There's nothing I can say. _

Her eyes are still squeezed shut, focusing on that spotlight in her mind. No audience, just her, singing how she truly feels.

_ I guess I thought I could be part of this / I never had this kind of thing before / I never had that perfect girl / Who somehow could see the good part of me. / I never had the dad who stuck it out / No corny jokes or baseball gloves / No mom who just was there 'cause mom was all that she had to be. _

Her eyes snap open; it’s been so long since she’s spoken about her parents…

_ That's not a worthy explanation, I know there is none. / Nothing can make sense of all these things I've done. _

She pours her emotions into each and every word, she feels the tears in her eyes, and for once, she doesn’t feel ashamed to keep them there.

_ Words fail, words fail / There's nothing I can say. / Except sometimes, you see everything you wanted and sometimes, you see everything you wish you had and it's right there, right there, right there in front of you…  _

Her voice quietens, shocked at the raw emotion she’s actually managed to manifest. 

_ And you want to believe it's true / So you... make it true / And you think maybe everybody wants it / And needs it... a little bit... too. _

She takes a deep breath, eyes slowly sliding toward Steven who doesn’t seem to be giving anything away. He’s simply watching her, an openness in his eyes that she’s never seen before. She feels so raw and exposed; standing alone, in the middle of a room, singing about what she’s kept hidden for so long.

_ This was just a sad invention, it wasn't real, I know. / But we were happy. / I guess I couldn't let that go, I guess I couldn't give that up, I guess I wanted to believe, 'cause if I just believe, then I don't have to see what's really there… _

She’s angry with herself. She’s a mess.

_ No, I'd rather pretend I'm something better than these broken parts, pretend I'm something other than this mess that I am, 'cause then I don't have to look at it, and no one gets to look at it. / No, no one can really see. _

Her chest hurts, her heart hurts.

_ 'Cause I've learned to slam on the brake, before I even turn the key. / Before I make the mistake, before I lead with the worst of me. / I never let them see the worst of me… _

She bites back the pain, tears swimming with tears, and looks directly at Steven, who is half off the piano bench, his hand pressed down flat near the iPhone dock.

_ 'Cause what if everyone saw? / What if everyone knew? / Would they like what they saw? Or would they hate it too? / Will I just keep on running away from what's true? / All I ever do is run, so how do I step in, step into the sun? / Step into the sun… _

Steven immediately hits the pause button as Quinn gasps for breath, hand clutching at her chest, ripping at her shirt that seems to sit limply on her frame. He never truly realized how broken this girl truly was; this random girl who turned up one day, completely unprepared, completely closed off.

He stands and quietly makes his way to her; she doesn’t even seem to notice him, even though he’s stood right in front of her. She settles his hand on her shoulder gently, her eyes snap to his hand and then to him, breaking her out of her reverie, “You did good. It took a lot to do that, more than I probably realize.”

She breaks down in tears and collapses to the floor. He smiles softly and drops down next to her, crossing his legs beneath him. They’ll be here a while, and his next session will probably have to be cancelled, but he can’t bring himself to care.

\---

She has managed to calm herself down before she heads home. Steven thanks her for the song and comments he’ll see her again next week for the next lesson. She finds she can’t seem to wait for it. It’s cathartic, just like Max had said. Now she understood why Rachel did what she did; it was eye opening, entrancing, and at times, vulnerable. 

She finds herself pondering her review of Waitress on the way home; was she really correct with what she said? Was Rachel really missing something? Or was she just trying to be another tough to crack critic that the Times demanded?

No, Rachel was missing something…something deep inside that hadn’t been unlocked yet. Her previous works, sent in that email so many months ago, had specks of it, but Quinn wanted to see it all. She wanted to see that power, that edge, that vulnerability.

She wouldn’t rest until she saw it.

Her phone buzzes in her pocket.

**From: Tina Cohen-Chang (** [ **tinachangchang@outlook.com** ](mailto:tinachangchang@outlook.com) **)**

**To: Quinn Fabray (** [ **q.fabray@nytimes.com** ](mailto:q.fabray@nytimes.com) **)**

**Subject: N/A**

**_Before you say anything, I’m not stalking you. I’m just checking up on you. Rachel doesn’t know I am, but as it seems Rachel hasn’t received anything from you, I needed to check you hadn’t died._ **

**_Nice to see you haven’t._ **

**_Good pipes, Fabray. I understand now._ **

**_Good luck._ **

**_T._ **

She feels like laughing, but then the nausea waves over her before she can. Fucking Tina.

\---

Tina is as silent as a monk about Quinn Fabray when she’s around Rachel. Rachel, who continues to do her job, day in and day out, never misses a line or a cue, smiles at the applause she receives, then does it all over again the next day.

Tina sees her, no matter how much she tries to hide it. She stands in the wings everytime the last song is sung, the crowd to their feet, applauding. Rachel smiles, bows when she’s told to, but her eyes search to the crowd. Tina had assumed it was a fluke the first time, but it seems to be some sort of ritual that Rachel does at the end of every night.

She won’t admit it, but she’s started doing it too. Is Quinn in the crowd? Has she finally come to her senses? 

It had been random that she decided to tail the writer that day; dressed down, hair up in a ponytail, looking like she was just going for a run. Tina was just glad she hadn’t died. The radio silence had been unbearable, she could only imagine how Rachel truly felt.

She’d been shocked when Quinn made her way into the city and ended up at a small studio in Brooklyn. Tina had snuck her way inside after Quinn had made her way inside, and stood, mouth agape, outside the studio door when she heard the husky tones of Quinn’s voice fill the room.

It had sounded so raw; a woman ripped apart, screaming how she truly felt. It all clicked and made sense.

Tina knew she should disregard the whole thing, but as she made her way back to Broadway to meet up with Rachel, she knew she couldn’t. It wasn’t until the middle of act two that Tina pulled her phone from her back pocket and composed the email.

She wouldn’t get a response, she knew that, but it made her feel better to get it off her chest.

After all, she couldn’t really mention what she had seen to Rachel.

Rachel, who seemed ready to just move on and get on with her life, but whose eyes still scanned that audience night after night, looking and aching to lock with hazel eyes.

\---

It’s months later, Tina finds that Rachel Berry descends completely into chaos. Her indifference is morphed into uncontainable anger. Her diva storm outs are perfected and simply insane, and Tina finds it harder and harder to control her friend’s raging mood swings.

“The absolute gall of that woman!”

Tina sighs.

“She has ignored me for almost six months, this is outrageous!” Slam. Smack. Crack. “How dare she!” A tube of mascara narrowly avoids Tina’s head as it sails past her to impact the dressing room door. “God dammit, Quinn Fabray!”

“Rachel, if it’s annoying you so much, why don’t you just talk to her?”

Rachel spins on her heels to glare at her long life friend and Tina suddenly fears for her life, “Why should I? She hurt me!  _ Me! _ Why should I be the one to grovel?”

“I’m not saying you should. Jesus, Rachel, I’m not telling you to beg on your hands and knees for an explanation, why don’t you just ask?”

Rachel scoffs and turns back to her dressing room table, “Ridiculous.”

Tina is at the end of her rope, “Look, fine, if you don’t want to, then don’t, but this is just going to tear you apart if you don’t. It’s evident you want answers, so just go fucking get them!”

Rachel’s eyes widen as she observes Tina through the mirror, “Tina…”

“I’m sick of this. I’m sick of walking on eggshells around you. I want my friend back, and if I need to drag your ass to her damn office, I will. Get it together.” Tina turns and rips open the dressing room door, but before she leaves, she does her job, “You’re on in an hour. Get ready.”

Rachel is prepared for everything, it’s one of her defining features, but that... _ that _ , she never expected.

\---

She gathers the strength a week later, after a particularly bad run of the show. It’s the first time she’s forgotten a line. She stood mid stage, pie in hand, staring out to the audience and saw a sea of hazel eyes staring at her. She balked, stepped back, almost dropped that god forsaken fake pie and shuddered when she heard her directors hiss from the wings, feeding the line to her.

She continued, regardless, acting like nothing had gone wrong, and the audience didn’t seem to mind. When she looked back out to them, the hazel eyes were gone. It was just her imagination; her god forsaken imagination working overtime. 

It was time to end this.

She didn’t care about answers now. She just wanted to say her piece.

A day off, a thankful day off, she steels herself, trusty phone in hand and storms into the New York Times offices.

Emma is behind the desk, as usual, eyes wide as saucers as she sees Rachel storming through the foyer. “Oh no, oh no,” She squirts two globs of anti-bac onto the palms of her hands before rushing around the desk, rubbing her hands together.

“Miss Berry!” She calls out, but the singer doesn’t stop, not until she reaches the lifts. Emma rushes up to her, slams her hand on the elevator button, every bit of her soul screaming out at the germs that are probably on it. “Y-you can’t.”

Rachel frowns, “Why not?”

“You just…” Oh god, her hand feels gross, “You can’t.”

“What?” Rachel scoffs softly, “I can come and go from these buildings as I like. This is a public space, and I’m only coming to see-,” She pauses and barely fights the cringe off her face, “A friend. You can’t do this.”

Emma bites her bottom lip, “Uhm…” She sighs softly, “Actually, I can.” She drops her hand from the elevator buttons and clenches it at her side, fighting off the need to go wash her hands, “You’ve been banned by security.”

Rachel eyes shot open, “You’re kidding me.  _ Why? _ ”

“You-You caused a ruckus up there a few months ago. The editor didn’t appreciate you singing in the office and advised security to have you b-banned.”

She would laugh if she could, but the anger rose to magnitudes that she wasn’t even sure she was capable of. The blazing of her eyes seems to make Emma squeak and back off slightly, giving Rachel the opportunity to slowly raise a shaking hand to prod the call button.

Slowly, trying to keep herself calm but failing, she watches the doors open and walks inside. “Call security if you need to, but I have something I need to do. I won’t be back after this.”

Emma, the woman who thinks that germs will come and swallow her whole one day, immediately panics as the doors slide shut. If she was completely ridiculous, she would take the threat as some sort of harm to life. She dashes back to her desk and grabs the phone. She doesn’t call security, like she should, but instead calls up to a certain office.

“Warn Quinn Fabray. Rachel Berry is here.”

She slumps into her seat and unscrews the cap of her anti-cab, dumping the whole bottle in her open palm.

\----

Max drops the phone back onto the cradle and turns to face Quinn, who is hunched over her computer, typing like a demon out of hell. She’s only fifteen minutes away from deadline and she’s desperately trying to meet it.

“Uhm, Quinn…”

“Max, I’m busy.” 

“But-,”

“Max, I’m busy.”

“But Quinn, Ra-,”

The door is swung open, slamming with a deafening thud against the wall. Quinn’s head snaps up, eyes widening as she takes in the quaking form of Rachel Berry stood on the threshold. She looks close to commiting murder and Quinn finds herself gulping. Oh god, what had she done now? Rachel looks like she wants to kill her, but damn if she looked good.

Quinn shook her head and turned to look at Max, who looked sheepish, “I tried to warn you.”

The blonde turned back to the singer, who was slowly stomping her way toward her. “Quinn Fabray.”

“Rachel, what are you-,”

“No, you don’t get to speak. I have no interest in knowing what you want to say.” Rachel pulls out her phone and Quinn’s panicked eyes snap from it, to her editors door, which is wide open. “You will listen and you will listen well. I’m only going to do this once, and after this, I’m closing the chapter. I’m done.”

Rachel throws her bedazzled monstrosity of a phone onto Quinn’s desk, narrowly avoiding her keyboard and presses play. Quinn glances at the song and sighs; she reviewed this musical almost a year ago. She deserves this.

_ So your best friend screwed you over, acted nice when she's not nice. / Well, I have some advice, 'cause it's happened to me... twice. / Here's my secret strategy, it always works because the world doesn't end. / It just feels like it does. _

Quinn sighs softly when Rachel raises her hand, middle finger poised and ridged right in front of her face.

_ So raise your right finger and solemnly swear, "Whatever they say about me, I don't care!" / I won't twist in knots to join your game, I will say, "You make me mad." / And if you treat me bad, I'll say, "You're bad." / And if I eat alone from this moment on that's just what I'll do, 'cause I'd rather be me, I'd rather be me. / I'd rather be me than be with you! _

Rachel gets more aggressive, free hand dropping onto the edge of Quinn’s desk, gripping for dear life.

_ We're supposed to all be ladies and be nurturing and care / Is that really fair? Boys get to fight, we've to share. / Here's the way that that turns out, we always understand how to slap someone down with our underhand. / So here's my right finger, to how girls should behave / 'Cause sometimes what's meant to break you, makes you brave. _

Rachel backs away, middle finger finally lowered. She looks angry, but so damn beautiful. Quinn grips the arms of her chair, she knows everyone is staring, editor included but she can’t seem to rip her eyes away from the fury before her.

_ So I will not act all innocent, I won't fake apologize. / Let's just fight and then make up, not tell these lies. / Let's call our damage even, clean the slate till it's like new. / It's a new life for me, for I'd rather be me, I'd rather be me than be with you. _

_ I'll say, "NO!", I'll say, "Knock it off, with your notes and your rules and your games." / And those sycophants who follow you, I'll remember all their names. / And when they drag you down, like they inevitably do, I will not laugh along with them and approve their palace coup, 'cause that's not me. _

Quinn flinches when Rachel surges forward, grabbing her phone and ripping it from the desk. Rachel backs away, phone clutched tightly in her hand.

_ I don't need their good opinions, I have plenty of opinions. / Everybody has opinions but it doesn't make 'em true. / What's true is being me, and I'd rather be me. I'd rather be me than be with you. / So raise them high 'cause playing nice and shy is insulting my IQ. _

Rachel continues to back away, back through the office, eyes locked with Quinn as she reaches the door. 

_ I'd rather be me, I'd rather be me, I'd rather be me than be with you. / I'd rather be me, I'd rather be me, I'd rather be me than be with you...! _

One last flip off and the door is slammed shut. The office is deadly silent as all members of the team stare at the door. Quinn gasps out a breath, her inner turmoil a mixture of anger and wanting to run to the bathroom to cry. Giving Rachel some space, didn’t seem to be the right thing to do after all.

“Fabray!” The editor bellows, eyes aflame, much like Rachel’s. “My office. Now!”

One of the team whistles a funeral dirge as she stumbles to her feet. Max throws a stapler at him.

\---

She barely avoided being fired. 

Barely.

She’s never seen her editor so angry, and it took her to beg for her job, that it wouldn’t happen again, and testament from one Emma Pillsbury, who said Rachel told her she wouldn’t come back, to have the editor slump back in his seat and accept it wouldn’t happen again.

“One more time, Fabray. If this happens again, you’re gone. Out the door. I don’t have time for this.”

“Of course, sir.” 

It needed to be fixed.

She just didn’t know how.

\---

She’s drunk, beer flowing up to her eyeballs, that very night. Max is opposite her, once again demolishing a giant plate of nachos. Quinn avoids them and downs another pint; anything to wash away the day.

“So…” Max grumbles around some chips and cheese, guac in the corner of his mouth, “What are you gonna do?”

“Fuck knows,” Quinn belches and bursts out laughing at Max’s wide eyed look. “I just wanna drink.”

They fall into silence again, Quinn is nursing another drink that somehow ended up in front of her, and Max is close to finishing his nachos. “I gotta pee.” He downs his pint and stands, “Be right back!”

Hopefully he doesn’t puke this time and has to ruin the night by going home early. She messes with her phone while he’s gone, taking a customary look at facebook, before promptly shutting it down when she realizes it's filled with crap she doesn’t care about. Twitter is the same. So is instagram, even if it aches to pull herself away from Rachel’s profile she found on there. It’s locked, the pictures can’t be seen.

She silently mourns, and flicks over to her emails. The inbox is empty, as usual. Max turns up again, signals for another drink and drops his forearms on the table, glancing at Quinn, “Whatchya up to?”

“Nothing…” Quinn mumbles, staring at the empty inbox, willing for something to come through.

“Email her, dude.”

Quinn snorts and goes back to her drink, content to drink herself into unconsciousness. 

\---

She’s in bed, two hours later, the room swims, it feels like she’s on a bouncy castle. She giggles to herself as she reaches for her phone; the battery is close to dying but she can’t be bothered leaning down to plug it in.

She opens her inbox and chews on her bottom lip, focusing on each and every word she types. 

Thank god for auto correct.

\---

Tina receives a panicked voicemail from one Rachel Berry at six am in the morning, and Tina curses she ever met the girl. She can’t make anything out on the voicemail, it honestly just sounds like high pitched screaming and wailing. What else is new?

“This better be good,” Tina grumbles, into her phone, still laid in bed, Mike wrapped around her from behind. 

“Oh thank god, you’re awake.”

“I am now.”

“Tina. She emailed me.”

Tina perks up, slightly, at this, “Oh?” Then deflates immediately when Rachel tells her she went to the Times offices and essentially told Quinn to go fuck herself, “For god sake, Rachel.”

“I was angry! Look, that’s beside the point. She emailed me and...Tina...the things she said.”

Tina groaned softly and left the safe haven of Mike’s arms to crawl out of bed. “And?” There’s silence, blessed silence, and Tina stops pulling up her jeans. “Rach?”

“Nevermind. Go back to bed. I know what to do.”

There’s a dial tone and Tina groans, slumping back down onto the bed, face first into her pillow, one leg still in her jeans, and falls back asleep.

Fuck Rachel Berry, the nurotic maniac. 

\---

  
  
  


**From: Quinn Fabray (** [ ******q.fabray@nytimes.com** ](mailto:qfabray@nytimes.com) ******)**

**To: Rachel Berry (** [ **rachelberry93@outlook.com** ****](mailto:rachelberry93@outlook.com) **)** ****

**Subject: N/A**

**_Rachel Berry,_ **

**_Your little interlude was interesting to say the least. What you said makes sense. You always seem to pick songs to rip me apart. You probably did it to hurt me, like I did with you. Sorry about that._ **

**_I’m a mess and I’m numb inside. You deserve a lot better._ **

**_But I’m selfish and I can’t seem to stop thinking about you. Pretty sure I’m turning into an alcoholic at this point. They even gave me a tab at Sidebar. Come down for drinks sometime, it’s free!!1_ **

**_Anyway. I want to kiss you and do really nice stuff to you, but I’m a mess and I don’t deserve it. Think I’m passing out. Bye._ **

**_Quinn Fabray_ **

**_Arts & Theatre_ **

**_The New York Times_ **

\---

Two days later, she’s ready. Her phone is tucked in her jeans, bluetooth speaker in her backpack slung over her shoulders, walking in a very unfamiliar neighbourhood. It’s quiet and incredibly suburban. All the lights are off, it being close to two am. She knows she has a death wish being out this late, but she had aborted this attempt over five times. 

She had originally set off at six pm. 

After going back home twice, then actually getting on the subway, to then come back into the city, to go back out again an hour later. She’s finally here. In Quinn’s neighbourhood. Ready. Finally.

Tina mercifully gave her Quinn’s address, after promising she wasn’t going to kill the poor woman, or get arrested for stalking. It’s a small home, quaint actually. It’s a relatively old build, and lo and behold, a generous looking tree right outside the window she needs. She’s hardly a climber, and incredibly short, but she can do this. Quinn’s window is dark, the curtain slightly askew with the gentle breeze blowing through a cracked open window.

She takes a deep breath and whips out her phone. Better now than never. She hits play and quickly shoves the phone in her pocket. She should get an award for this; climbing and keeping excellent vocals at the same time? She’s ahead of her time.

_ The demon queen of high school has decreed it: she says Monday, 8AM, I will be deleted. / They'll hunt me down in study hall, stuff and mount me on the wall. / Thirty hours to live, how shall I spend them? _

Quinn’s eyes flutter open at the deep tones of a guitar and shocks herself awake when she hears Rachel’s voice from outside. She scrambles up the bed, staring at the open window. She doesn’t dare get up, she can’t. She saw her sent box the day after her drunken night. This can’t be happening. She’s dreaming. She pulls her knees up to her chest, cradling the sheet to her chest.

_ I don't have to stay and die like cattle, I could change my name and ride up to Seattle. / But I don't own a motorbike… / Wait—here's an option that I like: spend these thirty hours gettin' freakay! / Yeah! _

Quinn gulps as she sees the flash of brown hair at her window; this is how she dies.

_ I need it hard, I'm a dead girl walkin'. / I'm in your yard, I'm a dead girl walkin'. / Before they punch my clock, I'm snappin' off your window lock, got no time to knock, I'm a dead girl walking. _

Rachel is pushing open her window, Quinn clenches the sheet in two balled up fists, eyeing the girl with wide eyes as she climbs through, dropping to the floor with a light thud. She falls flat on her ass, but as graceful as ever, she’s back to her feet, walking to the end of the bed and dropping the bag to the floor at the foot of the bed.

“Rachel? What are you doing in my room?”

_ Shh…! _

Quinn captures her lip between her teeth and watches as Rachel gently presses a finger to her own lips, eyes glittering in the low street lights from outside.

_ Sorry, but I really had to wake you, see, I decided I must ride you 'til I break you. _

Quinn eyes widen comically. 

_ 'Cause Heather says I gots to go, you're my last meal on death row. / Shut your mouth and lose them tighty-whities! _

Rachel lunges forward, gripping the bed sheets and ripping them from Quinn. The blonde squeaks as they are discarded to the floor, trying to cover her body, even though she’s wearing shorts and a shirt.

_ Come on!  _

Rachel is on the bed and Quinn tries not to shout out in fright as Rachel crawls on all fours toward her.

_ Tonight I'm yours, I'm your dead girl walkin' / Get on all fours, kiss this dead girl walkin', / Let's go, you know the drill: I'm hot and pissed and on the pill. / Bow down to the will of a dead girl walking! _

Quinn gulps as Rachel comes up to her, almost nose to nose, and fights back the urge to surge forward. Rachel’s hand reaches up to brush a lock of blonde hair that has fallen into her eyes. She’s so gentle.

_ And you know, you know, you know, it's 'cause you're beautiful. / You say you're numb inside, but I can't agree. / So the world's unfair, keep it locked out there. / In here it's beautiful, let's make this beautiful! _

Fuck it.

“That works for me.” Quinn surges forward and captures Rachel’s lips, finally, mercifully, and takes what she’s always wanted. They kiss, collapsing into one another, Rachel in her lap, clutching at her shoulders for support. It’s everything she’s wanted in more. Rachel Berry, on her lap, kissing her like it’s the last thing she’ll ever do.

The performance of a lifetime.

_ Yeah! / Full steam ahead! / Take this dead girl walkin' _

Quinn holds on for dear life, gasping for breath, “How’d you find my address?” Rachel just surges forward again, grinding her hips into Quinn. Sweet baby Jesus.

_ Let's break the bed, rock this dead girl walkin'! _

Rachel’s leans back, back arched, hands planted behind her on the bed, nails digging into the mattress. Quinn is certain she hears a tear.

“I think you tore my mattress.”

Rachel surges forward, arms wrapped around Quinn’s neck.

_ No sleep tonight for you, better chug that Mountain Dew... _

Quinn glances where Rachel is looking. It’s water, but it works, I guess.

“Okay, okay.”

_ Get your ass in gear, make this whole town disappear! _

“Okay, okay!”

_ Slap me! Pull my hair! Touch me _

Rachel grabs Quinn’s hands, bringing them to her chest. Quinn almost melts.

_ There and there and there! _

Rachel’s shirt is ripped open and Quinn groans as she sees the swells trapped behind a lacy bra. Rachel grips her shoulders, hanging on for dear life as she grinds down into Quinn, voice barely wavering as pure unbridled pleasures rushes through her body.

_ And no more talkin' / Whoa-oh-oh-oh! / Love this dead girl walkin' / Whoa, whoa! Hey, hey! Yeah, yeah! / Love this dead girl walkin' / Whoa, whoa! Hey, hey! Wait, wait! / Love this dead girl / Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! _

“Ow!” She feels the bite to her lip, but the pure rawness of them grinding against each other is enough to curb the pain. Fuck, she’s close.

_ Yeah! _

\---

They’re both laid side by side, clothes still intact, sans Rachel’s ripped open button up. Quinn is heaving for breath, Rachel the same, her hand to her chest, almost feeling a little uncomfortable that her chest is on show.

They don’t talk. It’s quiet. Too quiet.

Rachel eventually gathers herself and clears her throat, “I didn’t intend to…” She drifts off, most definitely not looking at Quinn.

“Yeah, it’s fine, I think…” What does she think? She doesn’t even know anymore. “I think we just got caught up in the song.”

Rachel nods, brow furrowed, “Yes, definitely.”

Silence again. It’s just awkward now. Rachel sits up slowly, not missing the way Quinn flinches when she moves. With a sigh, she climbs off the bed and begins to button up her shirt as best she can. A few buttons are missing; she might need to steal one of Quinn’s jackets away to get home without flashing the homeless.

“Rachel,” Her eyes shut at Quinn’s low voice, “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I never intended to hurt you. I lashed out in completely the wrong way, all because of my own insecurities. I’m sorry.”

Rachel glances over her shoulder, sees the wetness of Quinn’s eyes and smiles softly, “You’re forgiven, Quinn.” She chuckles softly, “I think I always would have forgiven you.”

Quinn sighs and sits up against the headboard, knees up to her chest, “Why?”

“Why?”

“Yes, why? I’ve been terrible to you.”

Rachel turns to face her fully, one leg on the bed, “You don’t get it, do you?”

Quinn frowns, “Get what?”

“I’m…” Rachel shakes her head softly and glances at her discarded bag on the floor. “Contrary to popular belief, I’m not terribly good at voicing how I truly feel. I tend to hide behind ridiculous words that can only be found in a thesaurus. Music helps. I can say things I can’t even dare to say out loud.”

Quinn follows her eyes to the bag, “If you need to,” She glances back at Rachel, “You can.”

Rachel reaches down for the bag, pulls out the speaker and settles it on the bedside table, before reaching in her pocket for her phone. She flips through her Spotify, hoping to find the right song. 

It’s right there, waiting for her, but her finger hesitates over the play button. Can she really do this, right here, right now? Quinn seems to be glowing, but that maybe just from the orgasm she’s just had. She looks so damn beautiful, and Rachel feels her breath catch in her throat.

This is the moment, no matter how screwed up it may be; breaking into Quinn’s house, singing to her, grinding on her, making her come…

Right here, right now, it feels right, somehow.

“Reserve judgement on the singing until the end, please.” Rachel comments before she presses play and sets the phone down on the bedside table.

The gentle melody of a guitar and Quinn seems to inhale sharply. Rachel smiles sadly, of course she knows the song. She’s a Broadway critic.

_ What is this hollow kind of helplessness I'm feeling? / This type of terror is new / And the fact that I can hardly breathe is now revealing / How much I've changed 'cause of you. _

She stares right into Quinn’s eyes, settles on the gorgeous hazel eyes and sees the panic swell up inside them. Rachel reaches out, takes a hand and grips it softly.

_ You light the world for me, you live life fearlessly, braver than the bravest of us do / You trust, you hope, you dare / You choose to feel and care / I thought that I was strong till I bumped into you. _

_ What do I know about love? / What do I know about love? / Everything I thought I did, you've gone and changed it kid. / You're what I know about love... _

Rachel bites her bottom lip and hits the pause button before settling back. She’s still holding Quinn’s limp hand, the eyes are no longer panicked; it’s been replaced by…

“Please…” Quinn whispers, destroyed, “Can you go?”

It takes her everything not to burst into tears. She gathers her things, places them back in her bag and leaves out the front door this time. The wind has picked up and she’s cold, thanks to the lack of buttons on her shirt.

She should have grabbed a jacket.

She gets to the subway station. It’s closed.

She collapses to the floor and cries.

\---

It’s no man’s land.

Tina doesn’t dare broach the subject to either Rachel or Quinn. She’d picked Rachel up that night, over three weeks ago, and they hadn’t spoken about it since. Apparently Rachel’s declaration had gone down in flames, and she just wanted to forget about it.

She heard Rachel sometimes sobbing quietly from behind her dressing room door, or between acts, but she mentions nothing.

The glances are still there at the end of every night. There’s no hazel eyes looking back. The run is coming to an end; it’s only a matter of time until Rachel moves on to a new show. The critic will be back, but only for that, to critique.

_ Rachel Berry’s singing is shallow and empty, much like her pathetic attempt at a love declaration of love. 0/5.  _

Her friend is broken, but Tina doesn’t know how to fix this now. She wishes she could go back to being Agent Chang-A-Lang and doing ridiculous things for Rachel, but the fire is gone. Rachel does her job and goes home. There’s no late night dinners at her and Mike’s apartment, there’s no drunken nights out and terrible hangovers anymore.

There’s just...nothing.

It’s the second to last show, before Waitress closes. The crowd had thinned significantly; no one wants to see a show that’s about to close. They’re on to bigger and better things. The old shows that have been around for decades are pulling more seats than they are. Why bother?

She’s in the wings, watching Rachel belt the final note, and the once thunderous applause of the crowd is muted, due to the lack of patrons, but there regardless. Rachel looks empty.

Tina’s phone buzzes in her hand, she glances at it off hand, and almost screeches when she sees the name.

**From: Quinn Fabray (** [ **q.fabray@nytimes.com** ](mailto:q.fabray@nytimes.com) **)**

**To: Tina Cohen-Chang (** [ **tinachangchang@outlook.com** ](mailto:tinachangchang@outlook.com) **)**

**Subject: I need your help.**

**_You’re free to delete this if you don’t want to hear from me. I’m sure Rachel has let you know what has happened between her and myself. I hope you won’t. I need your help with something. I have contacts on the Broadway circuit, but I’m sure you know more than I do. This would be the biggest favour you could ever do for me. Please...meet me after the show. I’ll be up near Phantom, please don’t tell Rachel._ **

**_Quinn Fabray_ **

**_Arts & Theatre_ **

**_The New York Times_ **

Pure confusion swills in her eyes as she re-reads the email. Contacts? For what? Her head snaps up as Rachel walks toward her, the stage now dark. Only one more show to go.

“Are you okay?” Rachel asks, glancing up and down at Tina.

“F-Fine, just fine.”

Rachel frowns, but then nods and keeps walking.

Fuck, this needs sorting.

\---

“This better be good, Fabray.”

“You probably want to punch me and you can, but please hear me out first.”

“Go.”

“You know the guys here, right? I know the cast, but not the crew.”

“Phantom? Yeah. Why?”

“I need to speak with the stage director. I may be a critic but he’s not interested in speaking with me.”

“Again, why?”

“Tina, please. I’ll explain that in a minute.”

  
  


“Ugh, yes, fine. I can speak with him. What’s it for?”

“I need the stage, just for a few hours, a week from today.”

“...You’re joking.”

“I’m so far out of my comfort zone I may as well be in another galaxy.”

“Can I at least ask why you’re doing this?”

“I owe it to, Rachel. I freaked out...again...and ended up hurting her... again.”

“Mhm…”

“Tina, please. She probably doesn’t want anything to do with me but I need to do this. This is my last chance before it slips away completely. I know she loves Phantom, and I have the perfect song.”

“...You’re both completely ridiculous.”

“Yeah…”

“...I’ll do it. But you owe me so fucking hard, Fabray.”

“I know I do. Thank you.”

\---

“Tina, I really don’t feel like watching Phantom right now. I’m out of work and I need to start going to auditions.”

Oh god, she’s going to hell. “I’ve spoken with the casting director for Phantom, the girl that plays Christine is thinking of leaving. I put in a good word for you.” Rachel Berry will murder her. They’ll never find her body. Mike will find another girlfriend, one less dead.

Rachel screeches, actually god damn screeches and it sounds like tires against asphalt, “Are you kidding?”

“Nope.” Yes. “C’mon.” She grabs her friend by the wrist and pulls her toward the Majestic Theatre. “You should be the only one there. It’s a private...audition.” She pushes her toward the doors; the lights in the foyer are blacked out. The theatre isn’t meant to open for hours yet.

Tina drags her through, right into the heart of the theatre and Rachel gasps at the stage. It looks completely different to the original Phantom set pieces, “What’s going on?” She asks, staring at Tina accusingly.

“Nothing.” She continues to push Rachel down and pulls her into the centre row. She pushes her down into a seat, centre of the stage. “Just...sit there and wait, yeah?”

Tina is off before she can say anything else, and she watches helplessly as Tina dashes down toward the stage, runs up the side and leaps up onto it. She disappears into one of the wings and she doesn’t come back out again.

Curious. Rachel glances around the theatre; it’s as beautiful as she remembers from her first visit. She had seen Phantom originally back in High School; her father’s had surprised her with tickets on one of their annual visits and she had fallen in love immediately. She always said she would be Christine, and this seemed to be her chance…

If she believed Tina for a minute. She doesn’t. Something is going on, and the stage seems to give it away.

The props here aren’t from Phantom. She is ashamed to admit she found a bootleg of the abandoned Broadway adaptation of Love Never Dies, its sequel, whilst it was still in rehearsals; she recognizes some of the pieces, even through the grainy and pixelated video.

This is set pieces from Love Never Dies. Why are they here?

The lights go dark and Rachel inadvertently jumps, banging her knees on the chair in front of her, “Shit.” It smarts and she rubs it gently as a lone stage light fills the stage. It’s honed on dead centre.

The music starts up, a heavy bass and Rachel immediately perks up. It’s from Love Never Dies; she was correct in her assumption. But the stage is still empty, until a haunting voice echoes throughout the theatre, off in the wings.

_Ten long years, living a mere facade of life. / Ten long years, wasting my time on smoke and noise. / In my mind , I hear melodies pure and unearthly. / But I find I can't give them a voicewithout you_

_ My Christine, my Christine. / Lost and gone, lost and gone… _

A figure fills the spotlight, and Rachel surges forward in her seat, gripping the seat in front of her for support. In full costume, mask intact, stands Quinn.

_The day starts, the day ends, time crawls by. / Night stealsin, pacing the floor. / The momentscreep, yet I can't bear to sleep, till I hear you sing. / And weeks pass, and months pass, seasons fly. / Still you don't walk throughthe door, and in a haze, I countthe silentdays, till I hear you sing once more…_

Rachel stands slowly, making her way to the aisle. Quinn’s eyes follow her, almost scared she’s going to walk out. She could, just for some half hearted revenge, but Quinn’s  _ voice… _

_And sometimesat nighttime, I dreamthat you are there, but wake, holding nothing but the empty air…. / And years come, and years go, time runs dry. / Still I ache down to the core. / My broken soul can't be alive and whole, till I hear you sing once more._

Her voice is so raw and hypnotizing; Rachel can’t help but step forward, little bit little, making her way to the stage. Quinn continues to watch her, almost urging her forward with every word. She looks so unbelievably out of her comfort zone, but Rachel focuses on her words, on the pain in those words…

_And music, your music, It teases at my ear. / I turn and it fades away and you're not here. / Let hopespass, let dreams pass, let them die./ Without you what are they for? / I always feel no more than halfway real, till I hear you sing once more!_

Rachel is on the stage, standing beside the woman that worked her way into her heart. Her very own declaration.

“Rachel…” 

Quinn pulls off the mask, holding it in a tight grip, “I don’t deserve your forgiveness, let alone your love. I’m a mess, you should know this by now, but...I can’t stop thinking about you. From following me around and singing at me at work to try and prove a point, to almost getting me fired, to whatever the hell happened at my house...I want it all.” 

Quinn steps forward, takes Rachel’s hand in hers, “I’m not afraid anymore. I know I freaked out, it was just the shock.” She smiles softly, “I felt it. Every bit of it.” At Rachel’s confusion, she takes another step forward, “The emotion. I felt it. You finally got it.”

“Quinn…” Rachel gasps.

“I love you. I don’t think I’ll ever be whole without you. Please...let me be the Erik to your Christine.”

Rachel surges forward and crushes her lips to Quinn’s. The mask falls to the stage, dejected. It isn’t needed anymore. No more reason to hide. They kiss for a long moment before pulling back, Quinn whimpering slightly when Rachel pulls back slightly.

“Quinn...if you knew anything about me, you knew I love The Phantom of the Opera.”

Quinn smiles softly, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “I know.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever forgive you for singing a song from the damn sequel.”

The blonde balks, looking to apologize, but sees the sparkle in Rachel’s eyes and giggles, “God, you’re an ass.” She wraps her arms around Rachel’s waist and pulls her close, “I love you.”

“I love you too.” They kiss softly, but Rachel is pulling away again, “Is Tina still backstage?”

Quinn frowns, “I think so?”

“Good.” She pulls away and walks toward the wings, “Tina, I appreciate you helping my girlfriend but you do not  _ dare  _ say I have a chance at being Christine when the opportunity doesn’t actually exist!”

The blonde laughs outright at Tina’s loud scream somewhere from backstage and leans down to pick up the discarded Phantom mask. She slips it back on and joins her girlfriend back stage, maybe they can make some sort of different music.


End file.
